The Pale Tower
The rain did not fall so much as it struck the windowpane of the lecture hall, a rhythmic, percussive assault that mirrored the thudding in Elias Thorne’s temples. He stood before the blackboard, his chalk hand trembling not from the cold draft that leaked under the heavy oak door, but from the profound, hollow ache of a man who had mistaken the weight of his intellect for the weight of his...
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