The Pale Exile

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2026-08-22 15:09:44 -

The Pale Exile

The dream was always the same: a white gate, slick with rain, standing open in a field of grey mud. I was on the wrong side of it, my hands bound, the air thick with the smell of wet iron. I would wake before I could push the door, the scent of rust clinging to the back of my throat, my fingers trembling so violently I could not hold a cup of tea. It is 1893, and I am Elias Thorne, forty-two...

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