The Pale Door
The mud is thick and cold, a black slurry that sucks at your boots with a wet, visceral pull, and you are running. Your lungs burn with a sharp, metallic pain, the air tasting of iron and wet earth, and you are not thinking about the orders you have received, nor the names on the list, but only the heavy, rhythmic thud of your own heart against your ribs. You are a man of the law, or so the...
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