The Faded Guest

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2026-08-22 16:00:51 -

The Faded Guest

The wool of the epaulet was wet, slicking against the palm of your hand as you tore it from the shoulder of the thing standing in the fog. It did not scream. It did not beg. It simply held its ground, a perfect, hollow copy of Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, border warden of the High Crag, though its face was a blank slate where features should have been, and its uniform was the same grey...

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