The Distant Threshold
The mist in Oria did not rise; it breathed. It seeped through the stone of the border gate, dampening the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and settling in the joints of his knees. He stood before the gate, thirty-two years old, his face set in the rigid line of a man who had forgotten how to blink. In his left hand, he clutched a leather purse heavy with silver. In his right, he held nothing, for...
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