The Pale Exile
The ink on the signature line was still wet, glistening under the gaslight like a fresh wound in the parchment, when Arthur Vane realized his hand had stopped trembling. He had signed the confession. It was a simple act, the scratching of a quill on heavy paper, yet it felt as heavy as the iron bars of the cell he had imagined for the last three years. Outside the window, the London fog pressed...
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