The Pale Door
The letter was short, written in a hand that shook with age or fear, perhaps both. It bore the seal of the Inquisition, a black circle on red wax, and it sat on the desk like a wound that refused to close. Elias read it once, then twice, the ink blurring as the light in the archive failed. He was thirty-two, though he felt older, his bones aching with a cold that no fire could touch. The letter...
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