The Pale Path
The air in the Hall of Whispers did not move, yet it hummed with a low, resonant frequency that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Aldous Thorne’s bones. He stood at the base of the obsidian dais, his fingers trembling slightly against the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, though the blade was sheathed and dull, a relic of a court that had long since forgotten the utility of blood. The High...
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