The Pale Exile
The ink is fading. That is the first thing you notice when the dream lifts its heavy, velvet curtain from your eyes. Not the light, not the sound, but the slow, terrifying erosion of the mark that defines you. You are sitting at the edge of your bed in the master suite of the Whitmore Estate, a sprawling, ivy-choked manor that sits like a bruise on the hillside overlooking the gray, churning...
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