The Pale Tower
The rain had not stopped for three days, a steady, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the Lower Ward into slick, black mirrors reflecting the low-hanging clouds. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of his cramped shop, the wood warped by the damp, his hand resting on the frame as if the building itself might dissolve into the mist. He was a man who lived in the margins, a keeper of...
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