The Distant Threshold
You stand in the center of the keep, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that seems to seep up from the flagstones themselves, a scent that has permeated the very mortar and brickwork over centuries, binding the past to the present in a sticky, unyielding knot that you can feel pressing against the back of your throat. The walls of the Blackwood...
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