The Pale Door
Thorne. The name was shouted by the rogue guard, a guttural bark that cut through the wet noise of the city as Elias Thorne’s sword arm locked against the man’s cross-guard, their bodies a tangled knot of wet wool and iron in the narrow alley off the Market Square. The rain in the city of Aethelgard did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into a...
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