The Pale Exile
The quill was wet, the ink a black so deep it seemed to pull the light from the candle flame into its own gravity. Elias held the nib suspended over the parchment, his hand trembling not from the cold of the cellar but from the weight of the silence in the room above. He was twelve, the son of the village scribe, and he wanted only to copy the *Pale Exile* manuscript to prove he was worthy of...
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