The Pale Tower
The iron door of the keep groaned open, a sound like a bone snapping in the deep cold, and Silas stood on the threshold with his hands bound by chains that had long since worn the skin raw. He did not look back at the garrison marching him in. He did not look up at the pale stone spire that pierced the gray sky, a needle stitching the earth to the heavens. He only looked down at the mud, where...
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