The Distant Threshold

added blog Literature

2026-08-26 01:01:13 -

Jalmari Koskinen stood knee-deep in the black mud of the border marsh, his sword arm raised. The water smelled of rot and iron, a thick, cloying scent that coated the back of his throat. He was thirty-two, a man whose hands were cracked from the cold and whose lungs burned with the effort of holding his breath. In his grip was a blade, not of steel, but of shadow, a doppelgänger born of his own...

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