The Pale Tower
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a heavy, grey veil that blurred the edges of the world until the horizon was nothing but a smear of wet slate and iron. Elias Thorne walked through the mist with the deliberate, shuffling pace of a man who had forgotten how to hurry, his boots sinking into the churned mud of the moor. He was a man of books and quiet routines, a professor of history at a...
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