The Pale Door
The mud sucked at my boots as I raised the blade. The air in the pass was heavy with wet iron and the distant, low hum of the tram line that had eaten up the southern fields. I was thirty-two, a veteran of the border guard, and my hands were shaking. Not from cold, though the temperature was well below freezing, but from the fear that the High Command had already seen me. They had labeled me...
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