The Pale Path
You stand at the threshold of the iron gate, your hand resting on the cold, rusted bar that has held this place together for three centuries. The air here tastes of ozone and old stone, a flavor that coats the back of your throat like a lie you have swallowed too many times to spit out. You are a keeper of the pale path, though the title has long since outgrown the man who wears it. You are a...
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