The Pale Dance
The mist clung to the valley floor like a shroud, heavy and wet, swallowing the base of the ancient stone spires that rose from the earth. I stood at the edge of the precipice, my hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in decades. The metal was cold, familiar, a dead weight against my palm. Below me, the fog churned, hiding the path that led down into the Hollow, where...
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