The Distant Threshold
The fog in Oren does not lift; it merely thins, a pale membrane stretched over the city’s bones, and you stand in the center of the Singing Hall, your breath suspended in the cold air, feeling the vibration of the floorboards against the soles of your boots. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a scholar of architectural acoustics whose career hangs by a thread so fine it might snap at the...
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