The Distant Threshold
Elias. The name hung in the damp air, heavy as wet wool. He looked up from the vellum. The quill was still wet. The Abbot stood in the doorway, a shadow that had not moved in thirty years. "I wish to leave," Elias said. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. The silence in the scriptorium deepened. The Abbot did not answer. He simply looked at the page. Elias stood. His knees popped. He...
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