The Pale Exile

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2026-08-22 19:50:34 -

The Pale Exile

The glass vial sat in Bertram Yarrow’s palm, cold and slick as a river stone. It was the last of his possessions, the only thing left after he sold his father’s watch and the last of his mother’s silver spoons. The liquid inside was a pale, sickly green, swirling with a sluggish, oily weight. He rubbed his thumb against the neck of the bottle, feeling the grit of the dust from the cellar where...

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