The Pale Mist
The fog did not roll in from the sea, as the old stories claimed, but rose from the cobblestones of the courtyard, a pale, sickly vapor that smelled of wet ash and old blood. You are Elias Thorne, Captain of the Royal Guard, and you stand at the head of the tribunal, your hand resting on the pommel of your sword, feeling the cold seep through the leather of your gauntlet. Your desire is...
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