The Pale Mist

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2026-08-18 08:17:52 -

The Pale Mist

The feast was a lie, or perhaps I was. We gathered in the Great Hall of Ashworth Manor, the air thick with the scent of roasted goose and beeswax, while the rain lashed against the high, narrow windows like a thousand small fists. My father sat at the head of the long oak table, his face a mask of stern disapproval, and I sat at the far end, feeling the weight of the silence press against my...

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