The Pale Meridian
The discharge papers were signed in triplicate, the ink still wet on the third copy, a fact that would haunt Opal Layton long after the gatehouse keeper had turned his back. He remembered the smell of the keep, that thick, stale odor of damp stone and unwashed wool, which clung to his clothes like a second skin, a smell that would never quite leave his lungs even as he walked out into the...
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