The Pale Mist
The bell tower of the Whitmore estate did not ring; it screamed. It was a sound that tore through the morning fog, a jagged, metallic shriek that vibrated in the teeth and rattled the very foundations of the stone walls, announcing the arrival of the Inquisition before the riders had even crested the hill. You stood in the center of the Great Hall, your hands resting on the pommel of your...
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