The Pale Echo
Mara dreamed of the gate. It was made of bone. White. Pitted. It stood alone in a field of grey ash. No sky. No ground. Just the gate. And the door. The door was open. She reached for it. Her hand passed through the wood. Cold. So cold it burned. She woke with a gasp. The room was dark. The air smelled of wet wool and stale bread. Her head throbbed. A dull, rhythmic pulse behind her eyes. She...
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