The Pale Exile

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2026-08-21 21:40:29 -

The Pale Exile

The dream began with the smell of wet wool and rust. It was a scent that had no place in the clean, stone-choked corridors of the Citadel, yet it clung to Thomas Ashworth’s clothes, heavy and damp, as if he had woken not in his narrow cot but on the banks of the River Avel. He stood before the mirror, a tall, gaunt man whose face was mapped with the premature lines of a life spent in vigil. He...

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