The Pale Door
My fingers were deep in the mortar, scraping the blackened residue from the lintel of the archway, the grit grinding against the raw skin of my palms as the dust settled in the stagnant air of the hall. The year was 1240, and the estate of Blackwood was dying around me, its walls weeping dampness that smelled of rot and old iron, a scent that had become so familiar it was indistinguishable from...
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