The Pale Mist
You stand at the edge of the precipice where the stone floor ends and the abyss begins, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old blood, a heaviness that presses against your lungs like a physical weight. It is a place that should not exist, a hollow beneath the grand cathedral of the King’s Hall, yet here you are, a warden in the old guard, holding a sword that has not tasted flesh in a...
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