The Pale Exile
The kettle had boiled over again, leaving a white, mineral crust on the stovetop that Elara wiped away with a damp cloth, her movements mechanical, devoid of thought. Outside, the autumn wind rattled the leaded panes of the infirmary window, a sound that had become as familiar to her as the rhythm of her own pulse. It was a sound of intrusion, of the outside world pressing its cold, indifferent...
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