The Pale Mist
The sky above the valley of Aethelgard did not break so much as it shivered, a vast and trembling membrane of bruised purple and sickly yellow that had stretched over the horizon for three days without relief, holding its breath in anticipation of a violence that the wind, which had long since died, refused to deliver. Caelen stood at the edge of the precipice, his boots sinking into the...
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