The Pale Mist
"Arthur, the light is failing." Elara’s voice was thin, stretched over three years of silence, and it cut through the rhythmic clatter of the loom with the sharpness of a needle. Arthur Vane did not look up from the warp. His hands moved in a blur, threading the shuttle with a precision that had become second nature, a mechanical devotion that masked the hollow ache in his joints. The room was...
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