The Pale Shadows
The iron bars of the cage were slick with condensation. You grip them until your knuckles bleach white. Outside, the storm rages against the glass of the sanctuary, a blind white fury. You are the Warden of the Echoes. You do not sleep. You do not eat. You only wait for the breach. They call you the Monster. They whisper it in the hallways of the Old Library, where the books are bound in...
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