The Faded Dust
The mist did not roll in; it rose, a gray tide swallowing the cobblestones of Oakhaven square. You stand at the gate, your hand clutched around a small vial of clear water, the only thing in this valley that keeps the Rot at bay. You are Silas, forty-two, a border warden with a jaw that aches from the cold and a name that has been dead for twenty years. The Council says your brother died of...
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