The Pale Exile
The mud of the siege trench sucked at Eamon’s boots with a wet, greedy sound, a physical pull that mirrored the slow decay of his own joints. He was fifty years old, a fact that felt less like a number and more like a heavy stone lodged in his chest, and the tremor in his left hand had begun three weeks prior, a silent betrayal by his own nerves. Across the broken palisade, the enemy archers...
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