The Pale Door
The road to the Inquisition’s stronghold was a ribbon of mud that stretched through the grey mist of the autumn morning. Elias walked it with a leather satchel pressed against his chest, his boots sinking into the slurry with every heavy step. He was thirty years old, a scribe of modest renown in the capital, and his hands, usually steady as they moved over parchment, trembled now. In his...
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