The Pale Path
The chandeliers of the Great Hall burn with a cold, starless fire, illuminating the velvet drapes and the sweating faces of the nobility who have gathered for the King’s Jubilee. You stand in the center of the dais, the Royal Alchemist, your robes heavy with the dust of twenty years’ labor, and in your hand you hold the Pale Path. It is a sash of silk so fine it seems woven from the breath of...
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