The Pale Mist

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2026-08-23 07:44:31 -

The Pale Mist

The air in the Great Hall of Ashworth Castle did not smell of roasted pheasant or spiced wine, but of damp stone and old sweat, a miasma that clung to the silk doublets of the courtiers as they moved through the suffocating heat of the midsummer afternoon. Sir Thomas Bradshaw stood at the periphery of the banquet, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the heavy, rusted iron gauntlet...

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