The Pale Mist
The rain fell in thin, silver needles, stitching the gray sky to the wet earth. Cael stood at the edge of the mist, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The metal was cold, a familiar weight against his palm. It was the only thing in the world that felt real. The rest was soft, dissolving, a dream of stone and moss that refused to hold its shape. He had been sent here to purge the...
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