The Pale Dance
The dream did not wake him, but rather unfolded around him like a wet, heavy wool shawl, suffocating the air in the stone-walled office of the Royal Archives where the dust motes danced in the shafts of pale, grey light that filtered through the high, arched windows. Elara Vance sat at her desk, her fingers trembling not from the cold that permeated the ancient limestone floor, but from the...
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