The Pale Tower
The sky tore open above the salt flats not with lightning, but with a sound like a giant snapping its teeth, and you felt the shockwave in your marrow before the first drop of acid rain struck the canvas of your tent. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for time had become a fluid, unreliable thing in the wake of the Collapse, and you lay there, half-buried in the damp earth, watching the...
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