The Wistful Silence
The fog did not merely settle upon the valley of Aethelgard; it breathed, a slow and rhythmic exhalation of grey mist that swallowed the spires of the old city whole, reducing the towering architecture of stone and glass to mere suggestions of geometry. Elara stood at the precipice of the White Bridge, her fingers laced tightly through the iron railing, feeling the cold seep into the very...
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