The Pale Mist
The mist clung to the floor of the great hall like a damp shroud. It was not the sea fog of the coast, nor the autumn haze of the orchards. It was something older. Something that tasted of iron and old blood on the tongue. Elias stood in the center of the room, his hands bound at the wrists with strips of silk that felt like cold water. He looked at the floor. The tiles were cracked. One...
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