The Pale Banner
The object was a brass key. It hung from a loop of leather against the chest of Arthur Penhaligon, cold and heavy as a small, dead bird. It fit no door he had ever locked. It opened no lock he had ever seen. Yet he carried it with the devotion of a saint carrying a relic, pressing it into his palm until the metal bit into the flesh, a sharp, bright pain that kept the world at bay. Arthur was a...
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