The Distant Threshold
The ledger of the scriptorium recorded forty days of silence, measured not in hours but in the slow, agonizing accumulation of ink. Elias Vane counted the drops as they fell from the quill, a rhythmic, wet percussion that marked the passage of time in the high tower of Aethelgard. Each drop was a coin paid to the gods, a small debt incurred to keep the wasting plague at bay in the lungs of his...
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