The Pale Mist
The stone shudders under your feet, a low, tectonic groan that rises through the soles of your boots and settles heavy in your marrow. You are standing in the center of the Hall of Whispers, a vaulted cathedral of obsidian and pale marble that stretches into a darkness so absolute it feels like a physical weight pressing against your eyes. The air is thin, cold, and tastes of iron. In your...
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