The Pale Tale
The coughing fit came on like a tide, sudden and gray, filling the small cell with the taste of rust and old blood. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the fabric rough and damp against my skin. The air in the dungeon was thick, a physical weight that pressed against my lungs, making every breath a labor. I am Thomas Bradshaw, or I was, before the chains took the rest of me. Now I am...
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