The Pale Door
The rain in Oram does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into a mirror of the city’s own decay. You are Elias, thirty-five years old, and for the last six weeks, you have not slept more than two hours at a stretch, your eyes burning with the grit of the plague that took your wife, Sarah, three days before the Guild declared your shop’s inventory...
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