The Pale Exile

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2026-08-17 13:58:43 -

The Pale Exile

The soup was cold. It sat in the iron pot on the hearth, a gray sludge of turnips and bone, untouched since dawn. Thomas stared at it. He did not stir it. He did not wish to break the surface. The surface held the image of the window, the white stone, the gray sky. It was a mirror of his own face. Pale. Hollow. He was a soldier. Or he had been. The title was a ghost now, a thing of smoke. He...

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