The Pale Door
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey, suspended mist that smelled of iron and old ash. Elias Thorne stood in the mud of the borderlands, his boots sinking into the cold earth with every shift of weight, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps that misted in the chill air. He clutched the leather-bound ledger to his chest, the cover slick with moisture, the pages inside a map of...
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