The Pale Exile
The champagne in the crystal flute felt thin and cold, a sharp contrast to the heat rising in your cheeks as you stood near the pillar in the main hall of the Blackwood Institute. It was the annual gala, a night of silk and silver, where the air smelled of lilies and old money, but your mind was fixed on the coughing fit that had wracked Clara’s body only an hour before you left her bedside....
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