The Distant Threshold
The year was 1347, and the autumn fog in the valley of Vane had a weight that pressed against the windows of the manor house, dampening the light and thickening the air with the scent of wet stone and decaying leaves. Thomas Vane, forty years old and bearing the physical and spiritual scars of two decades in service to the Inquisition, sat at his oak desk, the parchment before him stained with...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews