The Pale Tower

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2026-08-18 14:14:04 -

The Pale Tower

The frost had come early that year, biting into the roots of the barley and turning the sky the color of a bruised plum. In the village of Kettle’s Hollow, where the river ran slow and black beneath the oaks, there was no talk of gods or magic, only of the yield, the price of grain, and the cold. It was a place of stone and silence, a closed box of a community where every whisper traveled from...

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