The Pale Mist
The damp stone of the barracks at Oakhaven Gorge did not merely absorb the rain; it seemed to exude a perpetual, cold sweat that seeped into the wool of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s tunic, settling into the marrow of his bones like a slow-acting poison. He stood rigid before the inspection table, the formal reprimand for refusing to execute the peasant accused of theft pinned to the front of his...
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