The Distant Threshold
Who was the man who kept the door locked? Jan Horak stood in the back room of the pawnshop, the air stale with the smell of old paper and damp wool. He was thirty-two, a border warden by trade, though the war had made his uniform a second skin that itched at the neck. His hands, rough from years of hauling crates at the hotel, gripped the edge of the wooden counter. Across from him sat Lord...
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