The Pale Exile

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2026-08-23 18:50:11 -

The Pale Exile

The hall smelled of roasted boar and wet wool, a thick, suffocating mixture that coated the back of Elias’s throat as he sat at the high table, his hands trembling beneath the polished oak. He was thirty-two years old, a scribe of modest reputation, and in this moment he felt the weight of his own insignificance pressing against his ribs like a stone. Across the table, Duke Valerius chewed...

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