The Distant Threshold
Chapter One Why does the thread pull tighter when the lie is smallest? Ivana Petrosyan asked the question aloud, her voice swallowed by the humid air of the bazaar, where the smell of roasted lamb and wet wool hung heavy over the stalls. She stood before the loom, her hands hovering over the warp, the silk trembling like a live thing. The Magistrate Vahram watched from the balcony above, his...
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