The Distant Threshold
The mortar is wrong again. You scrape it from the trowel, the grey paste crumbling into dust before it hits the stone. It has been three days of this. Three days of mixing lime and sand according to the Corps’ standard formula, Section 4, Subsection B, and three days of the Gate rejecting the seal. The mist in the highlands is thick today, a white shroud that swallows the horizon, but the Gate...
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