The Pale Mist
The fog did not roll in so much as it arrived, a heavy, wet blanket that smothered the cobblestones of the old town square. Silas Vane adjusted the grip on his rifle, the wood warm against his palm, a small anchor in a world that had begun to slip its moorings. He was a man of the Watch, a title that had once meant the keeping of time and the safety of the night, but now it meant the hunting of...
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