The Pale Exile
You count the hours in the tower, not by the clock which has been broken since the autumn of 1402, but by the wear on the leather of your gloves, the way the wool frays at the thumb where you grip the quill, and the slow, grinding ache in your lower back that tells you the night is deepening. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border warden of the Oakhaven Citadel, and you want only...
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