The Pale Exile
The letter lay open on the desk, its edges yellowed and brittle as dried skin, the ink faded to a brown that smelled faintly of iron and old rain. You held it there, your fingers trembling not from the cold, though the draft from the broken window was sharp enough to bite, but from the sheer weight of the paper in your hands. It was a receipt, or perhaps a warning, signed in a hand you...
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