The Pale Shadows
The border was not a line drawn in ink, but a bruise in the earth, a place where the green of the known world bled into the grey of the unmapped. You walked it for days, the soles of your boots worn thin against the shale, the air thick with the scent of wet moss and the distant, metallic tang of smoke. There was no map in your pocket, only the memory of a promise made in a cold kitchen, years...
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