The Pale Path
The frost has not yet claimed the cobblestones of the lower city, but it has seized the marrow of your bones, a crystalline intrusion that turns every step into a negotiation with the cold. You are moving through the market square, where the air is thick with the scent of rotting turnips and the sharp, metallic tang of iron being forged, yet you are not here for commerce. You are here to find...
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