The Pale Tower
The bread in your basket is not bread. It is a brick of compressed silence, heavy as a stone that has spent centuries in the riverbed, and when you bite into it, your teeth do not crunch but grind against something that tastes of iron and old blood. You are sitting in the high gallery of the Keep, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and the faint, sweet rot of the apples that have been...
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