The Pale Exile
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the world outside the thick glass of the high window into a smear of wet slate and dying ivy. Inside, the air was still and heavy, smelling of old paper, beeswax, and the faint, sweet rot of the lilies in the vase on the desk. Elias sat in the high-backed chair, his hands resting on his knees, watching the water...
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