The Pale Exile
The door to the study did not creak, nor did it groan, but rather it exhaled, a long, shuddering breath of stale air and dust that seemed to have been held in for a century, drifting into the corridor where the light was not light but a thick, viscous fluid, a pale, milky suspension that defied the geometry of the room and turned the straight lines of the mahogany wainscoting into the wavering,...
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