The Pale Mist
The gate of Oakhaven did not open for Elara Ashworth, though she stood before it with her father’s severed hand clutched in a bundle of linen, the relic pulsing with a cold, rhythmic heat against her palm. She was twelve years old, a scribe’s apprentice whose ink-stained fingers trembled not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the pardon she sought, a document that would clear her...
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