The Distant Threshold
The wind did not howl. It hummed. It was a low, resonant chord that vibrated in the marrow of Elara’s bones. She sat in the corner of the great hall, her knees drawn to her chest. The floorboards were cold. The stone was older than the memory of the land. Outside, the frost crept like a living thing, claiming the glass, claiming the light. Elara was seven. Her hands were small, pale things....
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