The Pale Mist
The feast is a lie. You know it. The candles gutter. The meat rots. Yet you sit. You must sit. The Hall of St. Jude is cold. Stone bites. Air chills. You are the Inquisitor. You are the seeker. You hunt the mist. The mist is not weather. It is a thing. It eats truth. It eats names. It eats the soul. You have hunted it for years. You have found nothing. You are tired. Your hands shake. The cup...
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