The Pale Exile
The blade bit deep. Maren gasped. Blood ran down her wrist. It was red. So red. The courtyard was white. Snow. It fell in thick, silent sheets. The King stood there. He wore a crown of iron. Heavy. Cold. He did not look at her. He looked at the sky. "Again," he said. His voice was dry. Like dust. Maren wiped her hand. She held the sword tight. The hilt was smooth. Ivory. Warm. It felt like a...
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