The Pale Mist
The ink on the ledger is black, but your hands are the color of old ash, trembling as you force the quill to scratch the final entry. You are Elias, a scribe of thirty-two years, and the debt of your father’s estate weighs upon you with a physical gravity that bends your spine. It is dawn, or what passes for it in the city of Vael, a place where the light has been swallowed for three days by a...
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