The Pale Exile
The silence in the kitchen was not empty but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the ribs and settled into the marrow of the bones, a silence that tasted of cold tea and the metallic tang of old iron, and in that silence stood Elias Thorne, a man whose face had been carved by the long, unyielding winters of his service and the longer, more insidious winters of his retirement, standing...
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