The Pale Exile
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, grey mist that clung to the wool of their cloaks and seeped into the bone. It was the kind of weather that erased the line between the world and the void, leaving only the damp cold and the smell of wet stone. They stood at the edge of the old bridge, the wooden planks black with rot and slick with condensation. "Are you sure this is...
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