The Pale Letter
The frost has taken the highlands, a white silence that swallows the sound of your own breathing, and you, Elias Thorne, stand at the edge of the ridge where the world ends and the void begins, your lungs a cage of rusted iron that screams with every shallow, rattling inhale. You are forty-two years old, a border constable with twenty years of service etched into the deep lines of your face,...
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