The Distant Threshold
The feast is loud. You feel the vibration in your teeth. Candles gutter in the stone hall. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of roasted boar. You sit at the long table. You are not invited. You are there because you must be. Your hands are bound. The rope cuts into your wrists. The leather is warm. It smells of sweat and old dust. You look at your hands. They are your hands. They are...
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