The Pale Tower
The ink had dried on the ledger, but the stain on Arthur’s thumb remained, a dark, permanent smudge that seemed to pulse against the skin as if it were a second heartbeat. He sat in the high-backed chair in the study, the room thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of the coal fire that had burned down to embers hours ago. Outside, the wind whipped against the windows of...
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