The Pale Exile

bir ses eklendi Literature

2026-08-22 00:30:28 -

The Pale Exile

The first thing I remember is the blood, not the wound. It was a bright, arterial red, slicking the wet cobblestones of the town square, contrasting violently with the grey drizzle that had been falling since dawn. I was twelve years old, standing on the steps of the old stone church, watching my own shadow stretch and distort in the mud. The shadow did not move as I moved. It lingered, a dark,...

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