The Pale Verdict
The rain does not fall so much as it presses against the skin, a cold, persistent hand that knows no mercy and asks for no reason, soaking through the rough wool of your tunic until the fabric clings to your ribs like a second, heavier hide that chafes and bites with every shuddering step you take along the muddy track that winds up into the teeth of the mountain. You are not thinking of the...
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