We near the edge of the world, where snow and ice give way to a void of nothing. Where the land simply stops against thick sheets of mist. And then my eyes fall onto the bridge of Lemuria. A path of gray dirt suspended in the air, with nothing below or above to support it. At its mouth, two intricately carved white pillars act as its threshold, with a stretch of splintered rope that extends from each one. We come to a stop in front of it. The bridge’s length disappears into the fog that drapes over it like an eerie shroud. A colorless tongue spat out of a murky gullet. It chews me up, making
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