The Pale Exile

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2026-08-18 09:43:21 -

The Pale Exile

The feast hall of the manor was thick with the smell of roasted boar and wet woodsmoke. Torches guttered in their iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows that danced against the rough-hewn stone walls. Lord Ashworth sat at the high table, his face a mask of aristocratic boredom, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, impatient beat against the oak surface. He was a man who had never known a...

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