The Pale Exile

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 16:19:51 -

The Pale Exile

The feast roars. You are there. You stand by the hearth. The fire eats the logs. Smoke curls. It smells of pine and ash. You are a guard. Your hand rests on your sword hilt. The leather is worn. Your fingers are stained. Black dirt under the nails. You are Thomas Bradshaw. No one looks at you. They look at the King. The King sits high. On the throne of iron. His face is pale. His eyes are...

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