The Pale Door
The obsidian arch did not look like a door; it looked like a wound in the world, a jagged tear in the grey stone of the mountain pass where the wind screamed with a voice that sounded too much like human weeping. Sir Kaelen stood before it, his forty-year-old hands trembling not from the cold of the highlands, but from the weight of the sword in his left hand and the hollow ache in his chest...
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