The Pale Path
The fire did not come from the hearth, nor from the lanterns that swayed in the drafty corridors of the high tower, but it rose, a slow and terrible blooming of red, from the very stones of the floor, eating the roots of the oak table where my father sat, his hands folded in a prayer that had long since ceased to be an answer. I remember the heat before I saw the light, a dry, suffocating...
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