The Pale Path
The glass was cold. Elara held it in her palm. It was a simple vessel. No etching. No gold rim. Just clear, thick, heavy glass. It sat on the table in the center of the stone room. The room was small. The walls were rough-hewn granite. They wept with dampness. The air smelled of wet rock and old fear. She did not blink. Her eyes were dry. They had been dry for three days. She stared at the...
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