The Pale Tower
The iron clasp on your left shoulder has finally surrendered to the weight of the years, snapping with a sound that is less a crack and more of a dull, wet thud, a physical exhalation of tension that has been held in the fabric of your body for seven hundred and forty days of siege. You do not flinch; you have forgotten how to flinch, and the sensation of the metal separating from the leather...
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