The Pale Path
The fog in the valley was not merely weather. It was a living thing, a grey shroud that breathed against the iron gates of the Citadel. You stand at the watchtower, the cold seeping through your wool coat, your fingers white around the rifle. The air tastes of rust and old rain. Below, the city of Oakhaven sprawls in a tangle of soot-stained brick and gaslight, a mechanical beast sleeping in...
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