The Pale Mist
The fog did not merely obscure the city; it consumed it, a thick, grey wool drawn over the face of London until the spires of St. Paul’s were nothing but rumors in the air. I walked with my head down, the leather satchel heavy against my hip, feeling the damp seep into the wool of my trousers. Inside that satchel lay the Codex, a relic of glass and vellum that had been my obsession for three...
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