The Pale Exile
Chapter One The river had quit making its noise three days ago, leaving a silence that pressed against the eardrums like deep water. Ralph Hutchins stood on the bank, his breath misting in the cold air, watching the fog roll off the ice. He was forty-two, a border warden with a pension dependent on proving the "Pale Exile" was a ghost, not a man. The uncanny element was a recurring, cold...
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