The Pale Door
The seal was a thing of iron and bone, cold to the touch, etched with the geometric precision of the old rites. It sat in the center of Elias Thorne’s palm, a heavy, circular disc that felt less like metal and more like a fragment of his own skeleton. He was a Warden of the Threshold, a title that carried the weight of centuries, though his shoulders ached with the mundane strain of a man who...
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