The Pale Exile

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 14:50:26 -

The Pale Exile

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, gray veil that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Commander Silas Vane stood on the threshold of the gatehouse, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not been forged by any smith in the known world. Across the courtyard, a single white moth beat its wings against the glass of the watchtower window. It was a small, frantic...

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