The Pale Tale
The mist clung to the marshes of the Lowlands, thick and grey as wool. It smelled of rot and rain. Caelen pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. He was a Warden of the Pale, a man bound by iron and oath. His sword, a long, heavy thing of black iron, sat at his hip. It was not a weapon. It was a part of him. The metal hummed a low note when he walked. It matched the beat of his heart. He...
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