The Pale Door
The seal is broken. You feel it in the bone. A cold crack runs from your knuckles to your elbow, a fracture in the porcelain skin of your duty. You stand at the edge of the moor, the wind pulling at your tunic. The ink on the parchment in your hand has dried, but the words are still wet with intent. You are the Warden. You are the law. And yet, the law is a door that has just been kicked open,...
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