The Pale Exile

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2026-08-24 14:01:21 -

The Pale Exile

The winter of 1348 did not arrive so much as it descended, a heavy, suffocating weight that crushed the breath from the air of Oakhaven. Sir Eamon sat by the cold hearth, his left hand wrapped in linen that had long since turned the color of dried blood. He wanted to survive this winter, to reclaim the honor he had squandered in his flight, but the wound in his palm pulsed with a black, viscous...

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