The Pale Exile
The silver frame was cold against Elias’s palm, a slab of frozen metal that hummed with a frequency only he could hear. He stood in the hallway of the Magistrate’s office, the air thick with the smell of stale tobacco and floor wax, the mirror strapped to his chest like a shield. Inside the glass, his reflection did not move quite in time with his breath; it lagged a fraction of a second, a...
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