The Pale Mist
The fog in the valley of Aethelgard does not drift; it presses against you, a cold, wet hand that seeks the gaps in your clothing and the cracks in your mind. You are Elias, a mason of thirty-two years, and you walk with a purpose that has hardened the muscles of your jaw into a permanent grimace, your wife Mara at your side, her hand clasped so tightly around your forearm that her knuckles...
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