The Pale Door
The Guildmaster’s office smelled of old wax and damp wool. Elias Thorne stood before the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white. Silas Vane sat behind the mahogany, a thin smile playing on his lips. He did not look up from the ledger. He tapped a quill against the wood. A rhythmic, mocking tick. Elias waited. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. He had come for the...
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