The Pale Path
The ink had not yet dried on the decree of expulsion, the black script still wet and glistening like a bruise on the parchment, when the High Chamberlain, a man whose face seemed carved from the same cold, unyielding stone as the castle walls, read the words aloud to the court with a voice that was merely a hollow echo of its former authority. It was a sound that did not carry, that died in the...
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