The Distant Threshold
The dust in the Ministry of Records did not settle; it hung in the air like a suspended judgment, a thick, gray fog that tasted of iron and old paper. Elara Vance, thirty-two and hollowed out by six years of silence, stood before the oak desk of Director Aldous Thorne, her hands trembling so violently that the leather-bound ledger she held rattled against the wood. The room was dim, the windows...
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