The Pale Path
The iron weight of the blade was not a thing he carried, but a thing that carried him, a heavy, cold anchor dragging his spirit down into the silt of the cellar where the air tasted of damp rot and old, unspoken sins, and as he twisted his wrists against the rough-hewn wood of the table that served as his prison, he realized that the silence in the room was not empty but full, a thick, viscous...
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