The Pale Exile
The stamp hit the paper with a sound like a bone breaking, and the ink bled into the fiber before I could even blink. I held my breath, the air in the municipal office tasting of stale tea and wet concrete, while the clerk’s finger hovered over the rubber die. My hands were shaking, not from cold, but from the sheer, grinding weight of the form in front of me, a document that felt heavier than...
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