The Pale Tower
The tower was made of teeth. That was the first thing I saw when the fog lifted, not the stone, not the mortar, but the jagged, yellowed ivory that formed its walls. They stood in a perfect, impossible spiral, rising from the black mud of the marsh into a sky the color of a bruised plum. My brother, Elias, tugged at my sleeve. His hand was small, cold, and trembling, but his grip was the only...
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