The Pale Tale
The glass shattered before you even touched it. This was the first rule of the Spire, the ancient tower that rose like a splinter of bone from the fog-choked valley of Ashworth. You were not here to break the glass. You were here to mend it. Or so the ledger in your pocket claimed. The ink was fresh, blue and cold, but the paper felt like dry leaves beneath your fingers. You stood at the base...
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