The Pale Bridge
The fog in Vael did not drift so much as it pressed, a heavy, wet wool against the skin that smelled of iron and stale river water. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood on the Pale Bridge, his boots sinking into the slick cobblestones, his hands trembling not from the biting chill but from the crushing weight of the obsidian shard he clutched in his left fist. It was the only relic of Mara, who had died...
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