The Pale Path
You wake with the taste of iron and old paper in your mouth, the air thick with the scent of ozone and decaying lilacs, and for a moment you do not know where you are, only that your fingers are cramped around a cylinder of bone-white wax, warm as a living pulse, etched with a sigil that seems to shift and breathe in the dim light of the chamber. You are standing in the center of the Grand Hall...
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