The Pale Bridge

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2026-08-20 16:03:57 -

The Pale Bridge

The bell rang at the hour of the wolf, a sound that did not echo in the stone streets of Alder Creek but seemed to be swallowed by the fog that clung to the cobblestones like a wet shroud. Thomas Vane stood at the threshold of his watchtower, his boots slick with the condensation that wept from the ancient mortar. He was a man carved from the same gray granite as the town, his face a map of...

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