The Pale Exile
The ledger showed forty-two years of service, each line a small debt paid in frostbite and broken knees, totaling a pension that would barely cover the heating for a cottage in the valley. Elias Thorne counted the entries in his head as he laced his boots, the leather stiff from the cold, while the wind outside the station window howled a low, continuous note that sounded like a complaint...
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