The Distant Threshold
The feast was a riot of roasted pork and heavy ale, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the square, his grip white-knuckled on the iron-bound staff that hung at his side. He was forty years old, a constable of the town for twenty-two, and he wanted the Magistrate’s seal. He wanted it to pay the debts that clung to his family like damp...
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