The Pale Tale

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2026-08-21 09:13:09 -

The Pale Tale

The hall smelled of damp wool and burnt sugar. It was the annual harvest festival in Oakhaven, a town that clung to the riverbank like a barnacle to a hull. Everyone was there. The air was thick, heavy with the perfume of roasted chestnuts and the low hum of two hundred conversations. Margaret stood near the back, near the drafty double doors. She wore her best dress, a simple thing of blue...

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