The Pale Door
The ice cracked under my boots. It sounded like a bone breaking. Thin, sharp, final. I stood on the ridge, breath misting in the freezing air, and looked down at the valley below. The river was a ribbon of black glass, frozen solid except for the center where the current still moved, dark and heavy. Below, the campfires burned. Small points of orange in the vast, white silence. My name is Elias...
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