The Distant Threshold
The rain fell in sheets of grey iron, hammering the stone roof until the air itself seemed to shiver. I stood at the edge of the precipice, my boots slick with mud and blood, the handle of my short sword slick in my palm. Below, the valley stretched out in a haze of mist and rot. It was not a place for the living. Or perhaps it was a place only for the dying. My name is Elias. I do not say it...
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