The Pale Exile
The blade snapped against the wet flagstones. I stood in the mud, thirty-two years old, my sword broken, facing the King. The rain in Chiang Mai did not fall; it stood, a vertical wall of grey that turned the palace courtyard into a swamp of sawdust and blood. I wanted to kill the traitor. I wanted to save my honor. The gas meter on the wall clicked, reading the truth of my debt, a sound like a...
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