The Pale Exile
The glass sat on the table. It was a simple thing, thick-bottomed, stained with the grey dust of the room. It had held his wine for three years. Now it was empty. It was waiting to break. Silas stood in the center of the room. The walls were high, vaulted in the old style, pressing down on the air like a heavy hand. He was a man of the Watch. His armor was dull, scratched by the streets of...
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