The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-22 11:34:31 -

The banquet hall smelled of roasted pork and old fear. I sat at the far end of the long table, my hands wrapped around a cup of thin ale, watching the steam rise and curl like smoke from a dying fire. I am Thomas, a scribe of forty-five years, and my sight has begun to fail. The candles on the table flickered, their flames dancing in a wind that did not exist, casting long, distorted shadows...

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