The Wistful Show
The fog that rolled into the port of St. Julian’s was not merely a meteorological event, but a physical weight, a grey wool that suffocated the cobblestones and the lantern light, erasing the boundary between the earth and the sky until you could not tell where the city ended and the void began. You stood at the edge of the Wharf, the cold damp seeping through the wool of your doublet, your...
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