The Pale Door
The cough was not a sound but a structural failure, a dry rattle that seemed to crack the very bones of King Aldric’s chest. Elias Thorne stood before the gilded bed, his hands steady despite the tremor in his jaw, listening to the wet, hollow percussion of a body failing under the weight of its own divinity. The High Priest, a man whose robes were as stiff as the laws he enforced, watched from...
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