The Pale Exile
The ink had dried before Elara Vane realized her hand was trembling, the black stain spreading across the parchment like a bruise that refused to fade, a mark that seemed to pulse with a rhythm not her own but one that echoed in the hollows of her bones where the fever had recently burned so brightly it had turned the world into a gray and shifting mirage, and she sat in the high tower of the...
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