The Pale Path
The dream was not of darkness, but of a specific, suffocating shade of grey. Elara stood in a room where the air tasted of rust and wet wool. In her hands, she held a silver locket. It was heavy, colder than it had any right to be, and the chain was tangled around her wrist like a vine seeking purchase in dry earth. She tried to open it, to see who had been sealed inside, but the clasp would...
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