The Pale Door
The air in the Hall of Whispers tastes of copper and old ash. You stand before the Iron Gate, your hand resting on the pommel of a sword that has never known the warmth of a sheath. It is heavy. It is always heavy. Behind you, the long procession of the Order falls silent, their armored forms merging into the shadows of the corridor. They are waiting for your command, but you are waiting for...
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