The Pale Door
Act I "Get out of here, you thief," the voice cracked like a dry branch, and the crowd surged forward, their spears dripping with the rain that had slicked the cobblestones of Vellum. Francesco Lancia, thirty-two years old and bleeding from a cut above his left eye, pressed his back against the wet stone of the canal wall, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He was not a man who knew how...
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