The Distant Threshold
Elias, you fool, you absolute fool, come here before I break your hands. The voice of Guild Master Thorne cut through the humid air of the workshop, sharp as the edge of a broken pane. I looked up from the bench, my fingers stained with the white dust of silica and the red smear of my own blood. It was the third night I had broken the curfew, and the Guild’s decree was clear: no artisan may...
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