The Pale Tower
The iron rain slicked the cobblestones of the industrial valley, turning the fog into a bruised, breathing thing that swallowed the steam from the chimneys. Sergeant Thomas Bradshaw did not look up from the barrel of his rifle. His knuckles were white, the leather of his gloves cracked by the cold and the years of service. He stood in the doorway of the old mill, a structure of rotting timber...
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