The Distant Threshold
The stone walls of Oakhaven wept with a dampness that seeped into the marrow, a cold that no fire could fully banish. Elias stood before the hearth, his hands buried in the dough, the white powder settling into the creases of his knuckles like ash. He was thirty, though he looked fifty, his hair a stark, brittle white that contrasted sharply with the dark, hollowed sockets of his eyes. In the...
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