The Pale Bridge
The bridge was not a thing of stone, as the maps claimed, but a living thing of pale, translucent bone that stretched across the chasm of the Blackwater Valley, its arches humming with a low, tectonic groan that you could feel in the marrow of your legs rather than hear with your ears, and you stood at the edge of the treeline, the mist curling around your ankles like the fingers of a drowning...
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