The Pale Exile
The candlelight in the Great Hall of the Duke’s estate did not flicker; it burned with a steady, predatory intensity that illuminated the gold leaf of the armor on the walls and the sweat beading on the brow of the man sitting at the high table. You are Thomas Ashworth, a scribe of thirty-four years, and you are eating a roast pheasant that tastes like ash in your mouth, your hands trembling...
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