The Pale Door
The great hall of Ashworth Manor did not smell of decay, as one might expect of a house that had forgotten the sun for a century, but rather of beeswax, dried lavender, and the heavy, metallic scent of old blood seeping into the oak floorboards, a pungency that hung in the still air like a suspended breath, thick and suffocating, demanding to be inhaled by every soul who dared to cross the...
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