The Pale Tower
The iron bars were cold against your knuckles, a chill that seeped past the leather of your glove and into the bone of your hand. You stood in the center of the guardhouse, the air thick with the smell of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear. Outside, the rain hammered against the windowpanes, a relentless drumming that matched the pounding in your temples. You were not here...
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