The Distant Threshold
The hammer strikes. You feel it in your teeth. The stone cracks. Dust rises. It smells of wet earth and old blood. You are in the vault. The air is thin. You breathe. It tastes like rust. You are a man of numbers. Of ledgers. Of clean, white lines. But now your hands are dirty. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are the King’s Assessor. You are a tool. A cold, sharp tool. The vault is deep. Stone...
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