The Pale Exile
The cart wheels groaned against the cobblestones. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed through the narrow street. You sat in the back. Your hands were bound. The rope cut into your wrists. You did not look up. You looked at the sky. It was a pale, washed-out gray. The rain had stopped an hour ago. The air smelled of wet stone and horse sweat. You were moving toward the city. Or perhaps the city was...
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