The Pale Exile
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that clung to the wet wool of Major Elias Thorne’s uniform, a ghostly veil that obscured the sharp angles of the city beyond the reinforced glass of the command center. He stood by the window, his reflection a pale, fractured thing superimposed over the blurred lights of the metropolis below, his face a mask of stone that...
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