The Pale Path
The frost had crept into the marrow of the world, settling in the joints of the old oak tree that stood sentinel over the gray, mist-choked fields of the estate, its branches bare and skeletal like the fingers of a dead god reaching for a sky that had forgotten how to warm. Sir Julian Vane stood at the edge of the clearing, his hand resting not on the hilt of his sword but upon the rough,...
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