The Pale Door
The ink on the ledger was not dry when I saw it, a streak of black running down the parchment like a tear that had finally broken the skin of my composure. I was the Archivist, a title that sounded grand in the hallowed, dust-choked halls of the Old Quarter but felt, in the winter of our exile, like a heavy stone around the neck of a man who could not swim. My name was Elias Thorne, and I had...
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