The Pale Door
The frost had begun to creep beneath the shutters of the manor, a white silence that pressed against the glass like the hands of the dead. You stood in the hall, the air thick with the scent of dried lavender and old wood, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt heavier than it had in your youth. The object before you, upon the velvet cloth of the high table, was not a sword, nor a...
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