The Pale Door
The rain lashed the high windows of the Palace, a rhythmic drumming that masked the whispering beneath my feet. I stood in the corridor, alone, my hand resting on the cold iron of the Pale Door. My name is Silas Vane. I am thirty-four years old, a Royal Inspector with twenty years of service, and I have come here to secure my pension by purging the anomaly that haunts this house. The rule is...
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