The Pale Door
The rain had not stopped for nine days, and the stone walls of the keep wept with it, a constant, cold exhalation that turned the air inside into something thick and metallic, tasting of old iron and damp wool, a sensation that had settled into the marrow of Sir Aldous Thorne’s bones until it was indistinguishable from his own pulse, a slow, rhythmic thrumming that matched the heavy, leaden...
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