The Distant Threshold
The iron is hot, a living thing that bites into your skin, and you do not pull away because to pull away is to admit that you are weak, and weakness in the Hall of Judgment is a sin greater than the crime itself, a sin that stains the very air which smells of ozone and old, dried blood. You stand before the High Arbiter, your hands bound in chains that have worn the leather of your wrists into...
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