The Pale Tale
The carriage wheel struck a hidden root with a jolt that sent a cascade of silt and dried blood across the windowpane, obscuring the view of the moor for a moment, a moment in which Elias Thorne found himself staring not at the landscape but at the reflection of his own face, a face that seemed to have been carved from the same pale, eroding chalk as the cliffs they were traversing, and in that...
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