The Pale Shadows
The mist swallowed the road before we could see the end of it. I held Eleanor’s hand. It was cold. Not the cold of winter, but the cold of stone. We walked toward the Gate. The air tasted of iron and old blood. I knew what I had to do. I had always known. Eleanor looked at me. Her eyes were wide. They held a fear I did not recognize. "Are we going in?" she asked. "Yes," I said. She tightened...
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