The Pale Exile
The bell tower of St. Jude’s hung over the valley like a rusted finger pointing accusingly at the gray, weeping sky, and within its hollow throat, Silas Vane sat with his back against the cold stone, holding the great iron key that had once opened the vaults of the Bishop’s palace and now opened nothing but the suffocating silence of his own exile. It was a heavy thing, this key, forged in the...
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