The Pale Door
The fog in the valley of Ashenmere was not a weather phenomenon but a living thing, a thick, grey sludge that rose from the riverbed and wrapped around the ankles of those who walked the old military roads. Elara Vance walked with her head down, her boots sinking into the wet earth with a sound like a wet cough. She was a woman made of bone and patience, her face a map of fine lines carved by...
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