The Distant Threshold
The rain in Ashwick was not water, but a fine, gray silt that settled in the crevices of the stone and the folds of men’s coats. It was a town built on the edge of a deep, uncharted hollow, where the earth seemed to breathe with a slow, tectonic sigh. For three centuries, the Watchmen of the Hollow had stood their ground at the Threshold, a narrow bridge of black granite spanning a chasm so...
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