The Pale Bridge
The heavy iron gate of the Keep of Blackwood did not open so much as it exhaled, a long, groaning sigh of rusted hinges and ancient stone that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of unspoken grievances into the damp autumn air. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his woolen coat, feeling the cold seep through the fabric and settle into the bones of his...
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