The Pale Banner
It is not the cold that breaks you, Elias, but the silence of the loom. You stand before the great frame, the warp threads taut like the sinews of a horse that has forgotten how to pull. The air in the workshop tastes of iron and wet wool, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat. Outside, the Grey Mist presses against the single window, a thick, opaque wall that erases the valley of...
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