The Pale Door
The mud was thick and black, sucking at my boots with a sound like a dying gasp. I held the iron key tight in my palm, the metal cold and slick with sweat. Behind me, the roar of the torches and the jeers of the crowd faded into a dull, rhythmic thud, like the beating of a heart that had forgotten how to stop. I was running not because I was brave, but because I had nowhere else to go. The key...
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