The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-23 09:20:27 -

The quill weighed three ounces in your hand, a heavy, dry thing against the damp wood of the desk. You counted the strokes of the letter 'g' in the word *grace*, one, two, three, four, five, stopping before the ink could dry into a black scab on the vellum. It was Tuesday. Friday was the deadline for the Bishop’s commission, and by Friday, if the book was perfect, your indenture would be...

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