The Pale Tale
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain woven from the smoke of a hundred chimneys and the exhalations of the ironworks, pressing down upon the slate roofs until they groaned under the weight of the damp. You are standing in the mud, your boots sinking into the slurry of the lane that led to the mill, and your hands are bound behind your back with rough hemp that...
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