The Wistful Skyline
The fog did not lift so much as it retreated, a slow and reluctant exhalation from the throat of the valley, revealing the skeletal architecture of the world beneath in shades of wet grey and bruised purple. It was the year 1242, or so the monks claimed in their brittle, ink-stained ledgers, though time had long since lost its rigid geometry in these high, wind-scoured passes where the air...
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