The Pale Exile
The bone in your hand was not a bone, or at least not in the way that it had been when you first received it from the hollowed chest of the old man who had once been the heart of this village, and you hold it now with a grip that is too tight, your fingers trembling as they wrap around the cold, smooth curve of the femur, a white relic that has absorbed the dark soil of the cellar and the sweat...
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