The Pale Exile

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 06:31:46 -

The Pale Exile

The mist did not rise so much as it remembered. It pooled in the cobblestones of the High Court’s square, a pale, breathing thing that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Sir Alaric stood at the center of it, his armor dented, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He was forty years old, a man who had held the northern pass for a decade, yet he felt hollowed out, as if the mist had already...

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