The Pale Door
The hall is cold. It is not the cold of winter, but the cold of stone that has forgotten the sun. You stand in the center of the Great Hall, the floor beneath you polished to a mirror sheen by centuries of feet that no longer exist. The air is still. It holds its breath. Around you, the court sits in rows of high-backed chairs. They are dressed in colors that have faded, their fabrics thin as...
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