The Pale Door
The iron gate of the mill did not rust, nor did the wood of the door warp in the damp, unyielding air of the valley, for they were bound by a pact older than the stone walls that surrounded them. It was a winter that tasted of ash and cold iron, and the wind howled outside the window like a beast denied its prey. Inside, the fire in the hearth burned low, casting long, trembling shadows against...
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