The Pale Path
The ink is not merely on the page; it is in the marrow of your hands, a viscous, black tide that has long since breached the containment of the parchment and begun to flood the sterile, white void of this place. You are standing in the center of a room that has no walls, only an infinite, blinding expanse of paper that stretches out in every direction, a horizonless plain of absolute,...
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