The Pale Exile

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 03:13:00 -

The Pale Exile

The banquet hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard smelled of roasted pheasant and old stone, a scent that had permeated the very marrow of the walls for three centuries, a heavy, cloying perfume that spoke of endurance rather than joy. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the long oak table, his hands clasped tightly around a pewter cup, his knuckles white not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of...

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