The Pale Door
The air in the cavern of the White Tower tasted of iron and stale rain, a metallic tang that coated Elara’s tongue as she watched the final shard of the Obsidian Vial slip from her fingers. It did not shatter with a sharp crack, as glass should, but with a wet, viscous sound, like a heavy tear breaking against stone. The liquid inside, a swirling nebula of violet and black, did not spill...
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