The Pale Mist

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2026-08-17 22:16:10 -

The Pale Mist

The feast of the harvest moon was a cacophony of clinking silver and the low, rolling thunder of men’s laughter, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of my bones, thick and sweet as the heavy, cloying wine that flowed from the great oak barrels in the corner of the hall where the air was already too warm and too still for comfort. I sat at the far end of the long table, my fingers...

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