The Pale Path
The ink is still wet on the ledger when you hear the footsteps, a rhythmic, hollow tapping against the stone floor that sounds less like a gait and more like the ticking of a clock counting down to a detonation that has already occurred. You do not look up from the vellum, for to look up would be to acknowledge the presence of the one who has come to end the silence of your labor, and the...
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