The Pale Door
The wind did not merely blow across the grey expanse of the moor; it tore at the flannel coat of Silas Thorne, a garment that had once been the color of deep, bruised plum but had been bleached by years of relentless rain and the abrasive friction of stone into a pale, ghostly shade of grey that matched the sky above. Silas was not a hunter of beasts, nor a gatherer of berries, but a seeker of...
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