The Pale Tower
The boiler room of the Ashworth Textile Mill did not merely hum; it vibrated with a low, tectonic groan that seeped through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots and up into his marrow, a physical vibration that felt less like sound and more like the planet itself shifting on its axis. Elias, a man whose face had been etched by decades of steam and soot into a topography of deep lines and weary...
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