The Distant Threshold
The pen in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, the metal nib biting into the tip of his index finger as he stared at the line of ink that had begun to bleed into the parchment. It was a thick, viscous black, not the standard iron gall used for municipal records, but something that seemed to have a weight of its own, a gravity that pulled the fibers of the paper down into a wet, dark depression. He...
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