The Pale Garden
The hunger was not for meat, but for the white dust that coated the tongue of the dead. Sergeant Elias Thorne woke with his mouth full of ash and the taste of copper, the same metallic tang he had known for decades, yet the air here was thick, viscous, and smelled of wet stone and rotting lilies. He was standing in a corridor that stretched into a darkness so absolute it seemed to have weight,...
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