The Pale Tale

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2026-08-24 07:42:54 -

The Pale Tale

The cold in the barracks did not sit on the skin; it lived in the marrow, a persistent, wet weight that no amount of shivering could dislodge. It was the kind of damp that smelled of wet wool and old iron, seeping through the stone walls of the 12th Legion’s garrison like a slow poison. I lay in my cot, listening to the rats scurry across the flagstones, their small, dry clicks a sharp contrast...

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