The Pale Tower
The tower was not built of stone, but of silence, a vertical throat of white ash rising from the center of the moor like a finger pointing accusingly at a bruised and indifferent sky. You stood before it, your boots sinking into the silt that had once been a garden, and you felt the weight of the accusation settling into your marrow, a cold leaden thing that had nothing to do with the wind and...
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