The Pale Garden
The bell of the great iron gate did not ring so much as it screamed, a jagged, dissonant shriek that tore through the velvet silence of the midnight air, and in that singular, terrible sound I heard the final exhale of the world I had built with my own bleeding hands, for I am Elias Thorne, a man who has spent the better part of three decades shaping the raw, recalcitrant stone of the northern...
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