The Pale Exile
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Community Center smelled of stale beer and wet wool, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to cling to the curtains and the backs of the chairs, and in the center of this suffocating warmth stood Elias Thorne, a man whose spine was so rigid it appeared to be a structural support for the room itself, holding aloft a silver candelabra that had been polished to a...
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