The Pale Door
The plague does not kill with a single blow. It steals color. It steals heat. It steals the hand from the arm until the limb is nothing but a pale, trembling leaf caught in a draft. You hold Kael’s hand. It is thin, the skin translucent enough to map the blue veins beneath, and it shakes with a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the failure of the body. You are...
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