The Pale Door
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the stone walls of the old city and soaked through the woolen coats of the men who walked the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Oakhaven. It was a city built on the bones of centuries, where the air smelled of wet slate, old iron, and the faint, sweet rot of apples left too long in the orchards beyond the city...
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