The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-22 21:50:20 -

The square was silent, save for the wet, rhythmic scraping of my quill against the ancient stone, a sound like a bone being ground to dust. I was Elias, forty-two, a scribe of the Order of the White Stone, and I was dying, or rather, I was being unmade, stroke by stroke, as I worked to complete the final seal on the village gate before the winter solstice. My hands trembled, not from the cold...

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