The Pale Exile

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2026-08-24 13:39:35 -

The Pale Exile

The brass key was cold in my palm, its teeth worn smooth by decades of turning, a small, heavy thing that felt less like a tool and more like a bone I had pulled from the earth. I sat at the desk in the west wing, the one my father had always called the counting room, though we never counted so much as we merely recorded the slow bleeding of the estate into the hands of creditors. The light...

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