The Pale Exile
The road to the coast was a rib of pale stone, cracked and dry under the midday sun, and Elias Thorne walked it with the heavy, shuffling gait of a man who had forgotten how his legs worked. He was a scholar of minor repute, a man whose life had been spent in the quiet, dust-moted libraries of the university, decoding the syntax of dead kings. Now he was decoding the terrain, reading the scorch...
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