The Pale Mist
The fog does not lift. It settles. You are the smith. You are the keeper of the gate. The castle looms above, a jagged tooth in the sky. Stone bites the bone. You stand before the threshold. The mist presses against your skin. Cold. Wet. Alive. It whispers in a tongue you know but cannot speak. Your hands shake. Not from cold. From fear. Thomas stands beside you. His face is a mask of stone. He...
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