The Pale Mist
The rain hit the slate roof in a rhythm that sounded like applause. Or perhaps a funeral drum. Hard to tell. The mist rolled in from the harbor, thick and white, swallowing the cobblestones. It ate the world. It ate the light. Elara pressed her back against the cold stone of the tower. Her hand trembled on the hilt of the knife. The blade was short. Sharp. It was the only thing in the room that...
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