The Pale Bridge
The fog in the Pale Kingdom did not roll in so much as it condensed, a thick, grey suspension that settled into the joints of the stone and the pores of the skin, carrying with it the faint, metallic taste of old blood and damp wool. Elias Thorne, an archivist of thirty-two years, stood in the central hall of the Royal Wardrobe, his fingers trembling as they hovered over a rack of velvet coats...
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