The Pale Door
The copper pot hung from the iron hook in the center of the hall, suspended in a silence that felt less like an absence of sound and more like a held breath, heavy and expectant. Aldous stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, the knuckles white against the dark velvet of his doublet, as he watched the liquid within stir in a slow, hypnotic vortex. It was not water, nor wine, nor any...
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