The Distant Threshold
The shield cracked. It was not a clean break, but a slow, splintering sigh of ancient oak. Thomas stood in the mud, his boots sinking into the black slurry of the valley floor. Rain hammered the earth. It was cold, a wet, biting cold that seeped through his chainmail and settled in his bones. He held the shield tight against his chest. The wood was worn. The paint had long since flaked away,...
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