The Pale Door
The sky broke open in a sound that was not thunder but the tearing of the world’s skin, and I stood in the mud of the valley floor, my sword heavy in a hand that had forgotten how to grip, watching the horizon dissolve into a bruised and weeping violet haze that smelled of ozone and old blood. I was Edward Ashworth, though the name felt like a coat that no longer fit, a relic of a life spent...
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