The Distant Temple
The mist did not merely hang in the valley of the River Aeron; it possessed a weight, a viscous gravity that pressed against the breastplates of the two men who stood at the edge of the treeline, their armor clinking with the subtle, rhythmic anxiety of metal shifting under the strain of a body that was slowly forgetting how to breathe. Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose face had been carved by the...
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