The Distant Threshold
The rain has stopped, but the mud at the border crossing does not. It churns. You are twelve years old, Elias Thorne, and you are standing in the wet earth, your boots sinking into the mire that refuses to let go. In your hand, clutched against your chest like a shield, is the letter. It is your father’s final word, a sheet of paper stained with the gray dust of the tunnel, and you must deliver...
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