The Distant Threshold
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the moorland outside the windows of Blackwood Hall into a bruised purple smear that bled into the grey stone. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, old dust, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Elias stood in the center of the great hall, his back to the fire, watching the flames lick at the logs. He was not a man, though he...
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