The Pale Mist
The ink on the page was already vanishing before I could even lift the quill, a pale, cold fog rolling in from the corners of the room to erase the words I had spent three days writing. I pressed the nib harder into the parchment, my hand trembling not from cold but from the sheer, grinding exhaustion of four years’ indenture, watching as the ledger of Master Harrow’s final accounts dissolved...
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