The Pale Exile
The iron gate of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not creak when it opened; it exhaled, a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the marrow of the bone, a sound that had been heard by every guard who had ever stood watch in the shadow of the High Tower. I stood before it now, the morning mist clinging to the cobblestones like a shroud, and the weight of my armor felt less like protection and more like...
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