The Pale Mist

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2026-08-22 09:22:17 -

The Pale Mist

The mist was not white. It was the color of old bone, thick and wet, pressing against the glass of the carriage window until the world outside ceased to exist. I gripped the satchel at my hip, feeling the sharp edges of the vials cut through the leather. Twelve vials. Twelve months of labor in the alchemist’s basement, distilled from willow bark and moonflower, meant to keep the monks of St....

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