The Pale Mist
The iron railing is the only thing that tastes of truth, cold and sharp against my fingertips, while the Pale Mist presses against the bridge like a living thing, hungry for the names of those who cross it. I am Elara Vane, overseer of the Halloway Mill, and I have twenty-four hours to secure the water rights before the council votes, but the fog has swallowed the town square and with it, the...
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