The Pale Garden
The iron gate screamed as Marcus threw his shoulder against it. The sound was a raw, metallic shriek that cut through the fog rolling off the marsh. Behind him, the firelight of the village flickered, a dying ember in the vast, gray throat of the night. He did not look back. To look back was to admit that he had lost. He held the book. It was small, bound in leather so dark it seemed to drink...
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