The Distant Threshold
The dream is always the same, a silver cup tilted by a mouth that is not your own, the liquid draining into the dark like ink into water. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue, the sheets tangled around your legs, the fog of Vael pressing against the windowpanes of your small room in the Guild district. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a court physician whose hands have steadied the...
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