The Pale Mist
The stone gate shudders and splits, a jagged vein of obsidian tearing through the ancient granite as the world holds its breath. You stand before the Hall of Whispers, that colossal structure of basalt and bone that has stood since before memory, its arches dripping with the condensation of forgotten centuries. The air here tastes of iron and ozone, a metallic tang that coats the tongue and...
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