The Pale Mist
The cart wheels groaned against the packed earth as Elias Thorne hauled his heavy chest up the hill toward the Abbey of St. Jude. The fog was thick here, a pale, clinging mist that swallowed the stone walls and the distant spires, making the ancient place feel less like a building and more like a breath held in the throat of the world. Elias was a glassblower, a man who understood the fragile...
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