The Pale Mist
The ink bled. That was the first thing that was wrong. Elias Vance stood in the center of the library, a place that was no longer a library. The shelves, once lined with leather-bound volumes of history and law, now stretched upward into a void of swirling grey mist. The books were gone, or rather, they had dissolved into the air, leaving behind only the faint, ghostly outlines of spines. The...
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