The Distant Threshold
The mist in the Kael Highlands did not drift; it clung, a wet wool pressed against the skin, tasting of iron and old snow. Silas walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man whose knees had ground down to bone over thirty years of service, his breath coming in short, rattling gasps that fogged the air before he could clear them. In his gloved hands, cradled against his chest like a sleeping...
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