The Pale Door
Who was left to count the dead when the living had stopped listening? Siranush Tsiklauri stood at the edge of the flooded cellar, the water already lapping at the hem of his tunic, and watched the gaslight flicker above the surface like a dying star. He was thirty years old, a captain in the Order of the Pale Gate, and his lungs were failing, a rattle in his chest that sounded like dry leaves...
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