The Pale Exile
Chapter One I remember the weight of the ink before I lost it. It was heavy, cold, and smelled of iron and rot. I was thirty-two. I was a clerk. I wanted my name back. The ledger on the desk was thick, its pages bound with brass. My fingers trembled. The ink was already on my skin. It bled into the creases of my knuckles, black and wet. I looked at the date. The tax boat was due. The sleet hit...
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