The Pale Exile
The bell tolled. It was a sound of iron striking stone. Cold. Clear. The hammer hung low. Elias stood in the yard. The mud sucked at his boots. He pulled his collar up. The wool scratched his neck. It was a rough fabric. Coarse. Grey. It felt like sandpaper against his skin. He did not look at the gate. He looked at the sky. The clouds were low. They pressed down on the walls. The walls were...
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