The Pale Tale
The cellar was wet. That was the first thing Sergeant Elias Thorne noticed, not the smell of rot, but the cold dampness that seeped through the soles of his boots and settled in his bones like a second, heavier skeleton. He stood in the center of the circular room, the stone walls curving upward into a darkness that seemed to breathe. Above him, the heavy oak door was barred. Below him, the...
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