The Pale Verdict
The road to the highlands is not a line on a map but a wound in the earth, a jagged scar that splits the green valley from the grey, silent peaks. You walk it with your boots caked in the red clay of the lower villages, the mud heavy and cold against your ankles, a constant reminder of the soil you have left behind. The air here tastes of iron and ozone, thin and sharp, burning your lungs as if...
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