The Pale Mist
The stone beneath your knees is damp and cold, a constant ache that has become as familiar as your own pulse, and in the gloom of the cell you clutch the parchment that burns with a faint, pulsing violet light. You are Elias, a scribe of thirty years, and you are a prisoner not for treason or theft, but for a failure of binding that has left you branded a danger to the realm, a man who broke...
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