The Pale Tower
The fog does not lift, it simply thins, revealing the wet slate of the market square in degrees, like a truth that is slowly remembered rather than suddenly shown. You stand at the edge of the cobblestones, your hands tucked into the pockets of your wool coat, feeling the damp cold seep through the fabric and settle into the bones of your wrists. It is a morning in Alderwick, a town that seems...
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