The Pale Mist
The iron bit of the longsword clanged against the anvil, a sound that echoed through the cavernous hall like the heartbeat of a dying beast, and Thomas Bradshaw stood rigid in the center of the stone floor, his arms trembling not from the exertion of the strike but from the crushing weight of a truth that had been slowly, silently, grinding against the inside of his skull for three years. He...
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