The Pale Door
The wind did not howl at the gate of Aethelgard; it whispered. It was a thin, reedy sound, like the breathing of a man who has been holding his breath for a century. Elara stood in the courtyard, the cold biting through the wool of her cloak, her fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a sword she had not drawn in years. She was the Keeper of the Threshold, a title that sounded more like a...
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