The Pale Exile

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2026-08-18 19:06:41 -

The Pale Exile

The air in the keep’s upper chamber was thick with the scent of roasted marrow and the damp, earthy rot of the stones themselves. Sir Julian, his armor stripped and hung in the corner where it gathered dust like a shed skin, sat at the head of the long oak table. Before him lay a single plate, upon which rested a loaf of dark rye bread, its crust split in a jagged, irregular line. He did not...

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