The Pale Exile

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2026-08-20 11:33:39 -

The Pale Exile

The ink on my hands was not merely dirty; it was a second skin, a pale, drying film that cracked when I flexed my fingers to grip the quill. I was the town scribe in the village of Oakhaven, a place so small that the wind carried the gossip from the miller’s porch to the magistrate’s door in a single, unbroken breath. My name was Arthur, and I was a man of modest means and moderate talents,...

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