The Pale Exile
The ink was still wet on the parchment, a slick, black smear that Elias Vane tried to wipe away with his thumb, only to spread the error further across the margin, a small, dark stain that looked less like a mistake and more like a bruise. He sat in the deep shadow of the High Court archives, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old paper, his fingers trembling not from cold but from...
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