The Golden Master
The fog in the valley did not rise so much as it pooled, a thick, grey wool spun by unseen fingers, swallowing the stone paths and the skeletal remains of the old orchards. It was a cold that bit through wool and skin alike, settling into the marrow, a persistent ache that whispered of hunger. Elara walked. She had walked for three days, or perhaps three weeks; time had lost its rigid shape in...
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