The Pale Mist
The carriage wheels ground against the loose gravel of the mountain pass, a sound like teeth grinding in a silent skull, as Elias Thorne adjusted the heavy leather satchel across his chest and watched the fog roll down from the peaks like a thick, grey milk that swallowed the world whole. He was a man who dealt in tinctures and salves, a practitioner of the old herbal arts that the modern...
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