The Pale Mist
The dream came to Julian Vane not as a whisper but as a heavy, suffocating sheet of damp wool pressed against his face, a texture that seemed to seep through the very fabric of his sleep and into the marrow of his bones, leaving behind a lingering taste of iron and old stone that persisted long after he opened his eyes to the grey, leaden light of the morning, a light that filtered through the...
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