The Pale Tower
The sword did not sing as poets claimed it would, nor did it hum with the righteous fury of the Crown, but it rang out with a dull, metallic clack that vibrated through the bone of Elias Thorne’s wrist and settled into the marrow of his arm, a physical truth more immediate than any doctrine he had been taught since he was old enough to hold a hilt. He stood in the muddy courtyard of the manor,...
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