The Pale Tale
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of the old town, a rhythmic, arrhythmic grinding that seemed to scrape the very soul from the silence. You sit in the corner, your hands folded in your lap, the leather of your gloves worn thin by years of handling herbs, tinctures, and the quiet, desperate hopes of the sick. You are not merely a traveler; you are a vessel for knowledge that...
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