The Pale Tower
The blade of Sir Aelric of Oakhaven did not sing as it cut through the air, but rather hummed with a low, vibrating resonance that seemed to emanate not from the steel itself but from the marrow of the arm that wielded it, a frequency that matched the ancient, stone-throated moan of the keep which stood before him, a fortress of grey basalt that had swallowed the light of a thousand winters and...
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