The Pale Tale
The mist did not rise so much as it remained, a pale, breathing veil that clung to the banks of the River Oakhaven with the tenacity of a widow’s grief. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of his workshop, his hands stained the permanent yellow-brown of tannin, watching the fog swallow the stone bridge that separated his world from the manor of Lord Vane. He was forty-two years old, and his workshop...
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