The Distant Ghost
The fog clings to the stone like a wet shroud. You stand alone in the hall. The air is thick. It tastes of salt and old iron. Your boots are heavy. They sink into the moss that grows between the flagstones. The floor is cold. It bites through your leather. You do not move. You wait. The shadows stretch. They reach for your ankles. You are the sentinel. You are the wall. Nothing passes you. The...
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