The Pale Door
The banquet hall of the Ironworks sat hollow and dark, a vast cathedral of soot and silence where the smoke from the forges had long since cleared, leaving behind a residue of ash that settled on the tables like premature snow. Elias Thorne stood alone at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting flat against the cold wood, his knuckles white as bone, watching the dust motes dance in...
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