The Pale Tale
The road that wound out of the city of St. Jude’s and into the high, thin air of the northern hills was not merely a path of packed mud and flint, but a long, bruised vein of the earth, pulsing with the slow, heavy blood of those who had no other way to go, and it was along this arterial stretch of misery that Thomas Bradshaw walked, his boots caked in the red clay that seemed to suck at his...
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