The Pale Exile

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2026-08-19 20:52:59 -

The Pale Exile

The rain had been falling on the roof of the Whitmore estate for three days, a persistent, grey weeping that turned the manicured lawns into a slurry of mud and crushed clover. Inside the grand dining room, the air was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, beeswax candles, and the faint, metallic tang of anxiety that seemed to cling to the velvet upholstery. It was a feast of sorts, though...

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