The Pale Exile
The fog in the valley did not rise so much as it breathed, a slow, gray exhalation that swallowed the stone walls of the Abbey and the men who walked its corridors in single file. Thomas Bradshaw moved through the mist with the heavy, deliberate cadence of a man who had spent forty years counting his steps, each one a testament to order, to law, to the unyielding geometry of his duty. He was...
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