The Pale Exile
The gate of the manor house stood open, a black mouth breathing cold air into the frost-bitten yard. You stand at the threshold, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that feels less like a weapon and more like a bone, a calcified extension of your own exhausted will. The iron is cold. It bites into your palm, a familiar, dull ache that grounds you in the physical world, far from the...
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