The Pale Bridge
The iron taste of blood is a constant companion in the highlands, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and reminds you that you are a creature of meat and bone, vulnerable to the snap of a bowstring or the bite of a steel tip. You stand at the edge of the cliff, the wind tearing at your tunic, and below you, the mist swirls in a pale, indifferent dance, hiding the village where...
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