The Distant Threshold
The rain in the city of Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey mist that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias Thorne stood in the center of his shop, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and leather, and watched the door. He was a man of few words, his face a map of deep lines carved by decades of honest labor, his hands stained permanently with the dyes of his trade....
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