The Pale Door
"Cut it," the Master said. His voice was dry, like leaves scraping stone. "Cut the left side. You hesitate. The iron remembers hesitation." I looked at the blade. It was a longsword, unpolished, dark as a bruise. My hands shook. I could feel the tremor in my fingertips, a tiny, frantic bird beating against the bone. I looked up at him. Sir Alaric stood in the center of the hall, his armor...
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