The Pale Door
The iron was cold. Not cold like stone. Not cold like winter air. It was a dead cold. A heavy, wet chill that seeped into the bone. Sir Aldric pressed his palm against the gate. The metal bit into his skin. He did not pull away. He was the Keeper of the Outer Ward. A title that sounded grand. It was not. It was a sentence. The castle loomed above. The stones were grey. The sky was grey. The...
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