The Pale Bridge
The air in the keep was thick with the smell of wet stone and ancient dust, a scent that had soaked into the very bones of the tower over centuries, settling into the cracks of the flagstones and the grain of the oak beams that held up the ceiling of your cell, and you lay there on the thin straw mattress, staring up at the darkness where the only light came from a single, high-set window that...
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