The Pale Path
The iron bolt of the gate had begun to sing in the wind before the sky turned the color of a bruised plum, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in the teeth of anyone standing within the courtyard of the Blackfort. It was a sound that did not belong to the wood or the stone, but to the air itself, thick with the scent of wet loam and the metallic tang of impending violence. Captain Elias Thorne...
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