The Pale Exile
The frost bit deep. It bit the skin. It bit the bone. Captain Elias Thorne stood alone. He stood in the white void. The snow did not fall. It hung. It suspended the world in a breathless, crystalline stillness. There were no trees. No fences. No houses. Only the white. Only the cold. Elias was a soldier. He had worn the uniform for thirty years. He had marched in London. He had marched in the...
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