The Distant Threshold

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2026-08-24 15:16:13 -

I counted the vials of iron-gall ink on my desk. There were forty-two. The light from the gas lamp was a pale yellow, cutting through the dust motes that hung in the cold air of the scriptorium. I was thirty-two years old, and I had twelve years of service to my name. The King’s ledger had to be closed by the winter solstice. If I missed the date, my pension would be voided. I wanted the money....

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