The Pale Tower
The rain in the Hollow doesn’t wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker, turning the ancient moss on the castle walls into a slippery, dark green hide. You are standing on the edge of the parapet, your boots sliding slightly on the wet stone, and you are shaking. Not from the cold, though the wind off the lake is sharp enough to cut through your wool coat. You are shaking because you...
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