The Pale Path
The wax seal was not merely a mark of authenticity; it was a wound in the parchment, a jagged scar of red that bled into the fiber of the paper with a slow, agonizing permanence. Sir Thomas Bradshaw held the document beneath the guttering light of a tallow candle, the flame dancing in the drafty hall of the Keep, casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to reach for his throat. He was a man...
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