The Distant Threshold
The trowel in Elias’s hand was heavy, its iron blade worn to a dull, uneven edge from years of scraping mortar that never quite set right. He pressed it against the fractured base of the Grand Hall’s central pillar, the stone cold and damp beneath his gloves, and watched as a thin line of dark red fluid wept from the masonry, staining his knuckles. The Ministry of Static had been silent for...
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