The Pale Door
The ink on the vellum did not dry; it remained wet, a viscous black that seemed to breathe against the cold surface of the oak desk. You sat alone in the Hall of Records, a vast, vaulted chamber where the air tasted of dust and old secrets, the weight of centuries pressing down upon your shoulders like a physical mantle. You were the Archivist, the keeper of the Royal Lexicon, a title that...
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