The Pale Exile
The mud on the road to Vane Keep was thick and grey, sucking at the wheels of the cart that carried Elias Thorne’s tools. He was forty-two, a master mason whose hands were mapped with white scars from chisels and trowels, and he had traveled for three days to secure a debt that threatened to swallow his family whole. The keep itself was a crumbling thing, a medieval fortress of pale limestone...
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