The Distant Threshold
The ink did not dry on the ledger, but it seemed to sink into the parchment, a black tide rising in the hollows of the paper where the numbers had been scratched. Elias Thorne sat in the center of the drafty archive room, his hands resting on the cold oak table, feeling the vibration of the quill in his bones as if the instrument were an extension of his own nervous system. Outside, the wind...
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