The Wistful Show
The fog does not rise; it settles, a cold and wet weight that presses against your skin like a shroud. You are Elara, thirty-two, and you are a warden, though the title feels like a lie stitched into your coat. You want the Hollow King. You want to catch it in the cracked silver mirror that hangs at your hip, a weapon that reflects true forms but shatters if you look at yourself. The Order,...
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