The Pale Mist
The mist did not roll in; it grew, like a fungus on a wound, from the black earth of the borderlands. Kaelen stood on the crumbling parapet of Ashworth Keep, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that felt heavier than iron, heavier than the duty that had bound him to this stone for three years. He was thirty, a knight of no great renown, tasked with holding the line where the map ended and...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews