The Pale Tower
The ink on your fingers never fully washes out, does it, or perhaps it only settles deeper into the whorls of your skin, a permanent testament to the work you do for the town of Oakhaven, a place that smells of damp wool and impending rain, where the air is so thick with unspoken secrets that you could chew on them and find a metallic taste on your tongue, and here you are, sitting in the back...
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