The Distant Threshold
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute smelled of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old paper, a scent that had clung to the velvet drapes for decades and now seemed to press against my eardrums as I sat rigid in my chair, the crystal glass in my hand trembling not from the wine but from the cold that had seeped into my bones since dawn. Dr. Aris Thorne, my mentor and the man who...
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