The Pale Exile
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges curling slightly from the damp air. It was a standard form, printed in a dry, bureaucratic serif, detailing the seizure of the Thorne estate. You read it twice, the ink blurring under the weight of your own confusion. The date was three days ago. The auction was tomorrow. You had not received a notice. You had not received a warning. You had...
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