The Pale Exile
The name is called from the stairwell, a dry, papery sound that echoes off the damp stone walls of the archive. You are Edward Ashworth, forty-two years old, an archivist of modest reputation and diminishing hope, and the voice belongs to the clerk who has summoned you to the upper floor for a final review of the St. Jude’s Guild records. The pension office in the town square has informed you...
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