The Pale Tower
The woolen cloak your father wove for you in the winter before the siege is no longer just a garment but a living thing, a heavy, suffocating shroud that you have wrapped around your own neck, your arms, and your heart with a devotion that borders on madness, for you believe, with the unshakeable certainty of a child who has lost all other anchors to the storm, that as long as the cloth remains...
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