The Pale Meridian
The watchtower stood against the grey sky like a broken tooth in a pale mouth, its stone worn smooth by centuries of rain and the rough hands of those who had stood its watch before. Thomas stood on the narrow ledge, his fingers wrapped around the cold iron of the railing, feeling the chill seep through the leather of his gloves. Below, the valley was a patchwork of dull greens and browns, the...
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