The Pale Garden

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2026-08-24 02:38:16 -

The Pale Garden

Alistair. The name hung in the air, heavy and wet, as the black sap oozed from the fissure in the ancient stone before me. I stood at the edge of the Thornwood, my sword drawn, the iron cold against my palm, while the wall whispered my name again, a sound that was not quite wind but certainly not human, carrying the cadence of my father’s final breath. I was forty-five years old, a knight of...

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