The Pale Exile
The iron in the blade had long since lost its temper, and with it, the edge. It was a broadsword, once a thing of lethal geometry, now a dull wedge of oxidized steel that dragged through the mud of the heath with a wet, grinding sigh. Elias Thorne held it with both hands, his knuckles white against the leather grip, not because he needed the weapon, but because he needed the weight of it. It...
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