The Pale Exile
The road out of Oakhaven was a ribbon of grey mud that snaked through the autumn woods, and I walked it with the heavy, rhythmic thud of a man who has forgotten how to breathe without effort. My name is Silas Vane, and for twenty years I have been the shield of this valley, the man who stood between the hearth-fire and the cold dark. I carried no sword today. I carried only the weight of a...
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