The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain woven from the damp breath of the valley, sealing the workshop of Elias Thorne against the world. It was a space of wood and wool, of heavy oak beams and the scent of lanolin and curing tallow, a place where time moved with the sluggish viscosity of molten wax. Elias sat at his bench, his hands still as he had been for three...
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