The Pale Path
The fire in the hearth died down to a whisper of grey ash as you realized that the velvet coat hanging by the door was gone, not stolen by any thief with a knife or a demand, but simply absent, a void in the fabric of the room where warmth and status had once hung heavy and dark. You stood in the center of the workshop, the air thick with the scent of tanned leather and old beeswax, and felt a...
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