The Pale Mist

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2026-08-23 18:55:06 -

The Pale Mist

Elias. The name was not spoken by a friend. It was a summons, a hook in the throat. I stood at the end of the long oak table, the ledger open in my hands, the pages yellowed by twenty years of honest ink. The Feast of St. Michael was in full swing. The air was thick with the smell of roasted goose, spilled wine, and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies that the Guild had ordered for the altar....

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