The Distant Threshold
Thorne, you’re late for the watch, and your hands are shaking again, which is a poor sign for a man who is supposed to be the law in this city, so straighten your back before the High Judge sees you and thinks you are already dead. The precinct hall smelled of wet wool and stale tallow, the air thick enough to chew on, and Elias Thorne stood by the door, feeling the familiar, dull ache in his...
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