The Distant Threshold
The dream was always the same: a black pill, slick with oil, dissolving on the tongue until the taste was indistinguishable from the iron of old blood. Catriona MacLeod woke with her mouth dry, the phantom bitterness clinging to the back of her throat like a stain that no amount of water could lift. She was forty-two, a registrar in the Seed Vault Guild, and for three years she had been trying...
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