The Pale Tower
The air in the basement of the Whitmore Archive tasted of copper and old rain. It was a thick, metallic fog that clung to the throat, making every breath a small, deliberate act of will. Elias sat on a stool that wobbled beneath him, his fingers numb around the hilt of a rusted iron key. Before him, the Great Ledger lay open, its pages yellowed and brittle as dead leaves. The ink was not ink,...
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