The Pale Door
The hand is a tool. That is what they tell you. A lever for leverage. A fist for force. A hand that holds the line. I have held the line for forty years. My knuckles are swollen, the skin thickened into leather, mapped with scars that look like old riverbeds. I am a Warden of the Keep. The Keep is stone, cold and older than the language we speak. It stands on the cliff edge, watching the sea....
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