The Distant Threshold
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey veil that turned the cobblestones into black mirrors. Elias Thorne, sheriff for twelve years, stood before the anvil in the smoky forge, his hand resting on the cold iron of his badge. Across the room, Silas, the blacksmith, hammered a horseshoe with a rhythm that seemed to mock the stillness of the air. “You have no...
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