The Pale Door
The sword was not a weapon, but a seal, and in the trembling hand of Sir Alistair Thorne, it hummed with a frequency that shattered the silence of the ancient hall. The air inside the manor was thick with the scent of ozone and dried lavender, a cloying perfume that failed to mask the metallic tang of old blood rising from the stone floor. Alistair stood in the center of the great room, his...
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