The Pale Exile
The cold did not merely enter the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude; it inhabited them, a silent tenant that had lived there longer than the monks, longer than the kings who built the place, longer perhaps than the very earth upon which it stood. I lay in my cell, the straw beneath me stiff with the dampness of centuries, and I felt the chill settle into the marrow of my left leg. It was a...
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