The Pale Letter
The iron gate of the Citadel of Saint Jude did not so much open as yield, a grinding sigh of metal against stone that echoed through the high, vaulted corridors where the air hung thick with the scent of damp moss and old blood. Captain Elias Thorne walked with the measured, heavy tread of a man whose boots had long since worn thin against the cobblestones of the lower city, his mind a...
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