The Pale Door
Thorne. The name hung in the thin air of the outpost, a summons that cut through the fever-dreams of Elias Thorne, who woke to the sound of his own ragged breathing and the creak of the wooden floorboards under the weight of his body. He was forty years old, and his joints ached with the specific, grinding pain of a man whose body was slowly rejecting the cold it had worn for twenty years. He...
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