The Pale Mist
The year was 1342, and the Pale Mist had risen from the valley floor with the dawn, a thick, milky veil that swallowed the foot of the mountain and licked at the foundations of the remote chapel where Elias stood, his hands blackened by dust and his eyes burning with a fever that was not of the body. He was a stonemason, a man who had spent forty years shaping the world into permanence, and he...
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