The Pale Exile

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2026-08-24 12:05:28 -

The Pale Exile

The snow had been falling for three days when I finally heard my own name spoken, not by Thomas, who would not look at me, but by the wind tearing at the shutters of my study. I was forty-five years old, a magistrate of the Highlands, and my hands were beginning to betray me. They shook when I held the quill, a fine, persistent tremor that turned my handwriting into a jagged scar on the paper....

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