The Pale Tale
The chain around my ankle was cold. It had always been cold, a metal constant in a world of shifting heat and breath. I sat on the stone floor of the cell, my back against the damp wall, watching the single bar of light from the high window slice through the dust motes. The light did not reach me. It stayed high, a promise of a sun I had not seen in three years. I was a prisoner of the old law,...
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