The Pale Path
The first thing Elara Vane noticed, as she stood in the threshold of the sealed East Wing, was not the darkness, but the silence of the dust, which hung suspended in the shafts of pale, dying light like a frozen snowfall that had never decided to hit the ground. She was thirty-four years old, a junior archivist with a salary that barely covered her rent in the city’s grimy northern district,...
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