The Pale Mist
The fog did not lift. It thickened. It crept into the manor of Alistair Vance like a slow poison, seeping through the cracks in the stone foundation, condensing on the cold glass of the windows until the world outside became a blurred, indistinct smear of gray. Inside, the air was heavy, tasting of wet wool and old dust. Alistair stood by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a...
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