The Distant Threshold
I woke with the taste of rust on my tongue. The air in the keep was thick, stagnant, a heavy wool blanket pressed against my face. I could not move my legs. Or perhaps I had no legs. The stone floor beneath me was cold, ancient, slick with a moisture that smelled of deep earth and forgotten centuries. I was here. I was always here. The tower was a cylinder of grey rock. It stood alone in a void...
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