The Distant Threshold
Ivor Zell, thirty-two, a scribe in the ancient city of Oram, woke with the taste of ash in his mouth, the dream of black bread turning to grey dust still clinging to his teeth like a secret he hadn’t yet told. The morning light in his small room on the terrace was pale and thin, filtering through the shutters to strike the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air, a quiet reminder that the...
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