The Pale Path
The white stone was not stone at all, but a fever that had eaten your memory and replaced it with the cold, flat geometry of the Duke’s palace, where the heat of your own blood had turned to ice in your veins. You stood before the high court, a forty-year-old merchant with flour still dusting the cuffs of your doublet, your hands trembling so violently that the parchment in your grip crinkled...
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