The Distant Threshold
The mist does not drift here; it breathes, a slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction that presses against your shins like the flank of a sleeping beast, and you stand at the lip of the Ashen Waste, the iron seal of the old mine shaft slick with condensation, knowing that if you do not drive the final spike before the sun sets, the village of Oakhaven will wake to a silence that has no bottom....
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