The Pale Bridge
The dream began not with a vision, but with a sensation, a cold, wet pressure against the back of Elias Thorne’s neck, as if the air itself had solidified into a damp, clinging skin that refused to let him breathe. He was standing in the center of the Hall of Whispers, a vast, circular chamber beneath the old library, where the walls were lined not with books but with mirrors that did not...
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