The Pale Mist
The morning fog rolled in off the river, a thick, damp shroud that swallowed the cobblestones of the market square before the first bells had finished their tolling, and within this grey opacity, Silas Vane, a man whose hands were perpetually stained with the indigo of the dyer’s vat, walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who carries a weight that has become indistinguishable from his...
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