The Pale Mist
The mud was cold. It seeped through the leather of her boots, a wet, heavy thing that clung to her ankles like the fingers of the dead. Margaret stood in the courtyard. Rain fell. It was not a storm, but a persistent, gray weeping from a sky that had forgotten how to clear. Around her, the soldiers of the King’s Guard sharpened their swords. The sound was a high, thin hiss. *Shhh. Shhh.* It...
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