The Pale Path
You are standing in the center of a room that does not exist, a space carved out of the solid granite of the world by a slow, grinding erosion of time and silence, and the air here is thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the dusty, sweet rot of paper that has been left to crumble in the dark for a century, and you feel the weight of the uniform on your shoulders not as a fabric but as...
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