The Distant Threshold
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence that swallowed the sound of the wind. It started in the thatch, that ancient, golden skin of the house that had sheltered the Blackwood line for three generations, and it rose with a hungry, liquid grace. There was no scream, only the creak of settling timber and the soft, rhythmic tearing of straw as it turned to ash. Thomas Blackwood...
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