The Pale Mist
You stand at the foot of the spiraling oak staircase, your breath caught in your throat like a bird trapped in a cage of ice, and the air around you smells of wet stone, old wax, and the metallic tang of fear that has seeped into the very mortar of the castle walls, a scent that clings to the back of your neck and refuses to wash away no matter how you scrub, how you pray, how you plead with...
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