The Distant Threshold
The brass buttons of my tunic were cold against the wet cobblestones as I scrambled for purchase, the iron gate of the Ministry of Internal Affairs groaning behind me like a dying beast. Rain, thick and metallic in the industrial chill of the city, lashed my face, blurring the world into a smear of grey stone and red brick. I was not running from the guards who had just struck me down; I was...
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