The Distant Threshold
The iron key in your pocket weighs more than a man’s life, a dense, vibrating weight that pulls at the fabric of your coat and hums against your thigh with a low, subsonic thrum that you can feel in the marrow of your teeth as you ride through the mist-choked borderlands of 1890. You are Elias Thorne, a constable of twenty-two years, and you are forty-two years old, which means that dawn is not...
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