The Pale Exile
The vault door did not just close; it slammed, a sound that seemed to crack the very air in the scriptorium, sealing you out with the echo of your own breath. You stood in the corridor, the keyhole cold against your knuckles, having just been denied access to the fragments of the crystal reliquary you had spent three years cataloging. The Abbot, a man whose face had grown as gaunt and rigid as...
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