The Pale Exile
The velvet lining of the coat has begun to rot, a slow and quiet decay that mirrors the rotting of your own certainty, and you trace the fraying edge with a finger that feels less like a limb and more like a tool of the trade, cold and precise, while the rain hammers against the high windows of the manor house, turning the world outside into a smear of grey and black, a visual noise that you...
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