The Pale Exile
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the boundary between the wet cobblestones of the village square and the low, bruised sky above. Thomas Ashworth stood at the center of this grey void, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted and vanished before it could reach the onlookers. He was a man who had spent twenty years learning the geometry...
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