The Pale Mist
Thorne. The name hung in the air, spat out by Magistrate Halloway with the same dry, brittle finality he applied to tax assessments and property disputes, and you felt the cold of the highland stone seep through the soles of your boots, a dampness that had nothing to do with the morning dew and everything to do with the way the pale mist was beginning to coil around your ankles. You stood in...
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