The Wistful Crossroads
The fog did not merely hang over the city of Aethelgard; it inhabited us, a thick, wet wool that wrapped around the spires and the cobblestones and the bones of the dead, pressing against the skin until one could no longer distinguish the boundary between the self and the damp, cold air that filled the lungs. I stood at the edge of the High Bridge, where the river below churned with a dark,...
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