The Pale Exile

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 13:37:42 -

The Pale Exile

The rain against the window of the guardhouse was not a sound but a texture, a cold, wet finger pressing against the glass, reminding Thomas of the skin he no longer possessed. He sat in his chair, the leather worn to a soft patina by twenty years of sitting, watching the water trace its erratic paths down the pane. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the smell of damp wool and the faint,...

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