The Distant Threshold
The ink is thick today, heavier than it should be, and the nib of my pen scrapes against the vellum with a sound like a fingernail dragging across a chalkboard. I am Elias, and I have three days before the river swells, and my left hand is no longer entirely my own. March 14th. I woke to the smell of wet earth, though the window was shut tight against the fog that has choked the city of Vael...
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