The Pale Exile
The fog had settled so thick over the water town that the port was useless, a gray void where the masts of trading junks vanished into the mist like fingers sinking into wet clay. I remember the cold of the archive room, the way the candlelight trembled against the index cards, and how my hands, stained with the ink of a thousand false claims, ached with the effort of holding the truth still. I...
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