The Pale Mist
Act I The looms of the silk town clattered in a rhythmic, metallic thrum that vibrated through the floorboards of the granary, a sound that Harald Lund had come to mistake for his own heartbeat during the long, silent watches of the winter dark. Outside, the northern cape was a white smear against the black water, the landscape reduced to the pale, jagged lines of a drowned coast, and the air...
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