The Wistful Show
The fog did not merely obscure the city of Aethelgard; it consumed it, a thick, gray wool spun by the looms of time itself, weaving a cocoon around the iron spires and soot-stained windows of an empire that had long since forgotten the sun. Sergeant Elias Thorne walked through this suffocating mist, his boots striking the cobblestones with a rhythmic, hollow thud that seemed to echo from the...
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