The Pale Mist
The bell rang. It was a dull, bronze sound, heavy as a stone dropped into a deep well. Marek stopped mid-step. His hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger, though he had not drawn it. The air in the chamber tasted of ozone and old iron. It was a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of his throat. "Who is there?" he asked. His voice was low. It did not echo. "Me," said the figure in the...
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