The Pale Mist
Vane. The name hung in the air, sharp and cold, as if the speaker had bitten down on a stone before releasing it. Elias Vane turned, his shoes squeaking against the polished marble of the Blackwood Foundry’s grand hall. The gala was in full swing, a cacophony of clinking crystal and low, predatory laughter that seemed to vibrate in the fillings of his teeth. He adjusted his collar, the fabric...
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