The Distant Threshold
The mud is thick up to your ankles, slick and cold, tasting of iron and rot as you wade through the marshland that borders the town of Oakhaven. You are not running, exactly, but you are moving with a desperate, rhythmic urgency that makes your lungs burn and your vision blur at the edges. Behind you, the sounds of the hunt are not the barking of hounds or the shouting of men, but a low,...
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