The Pale Tower

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2026-08-20 05:30:33 -

The Pale Tower

The wind did not howl; it rasped, like a dry tongue dragged across a stone lintel, carrying with it the scent of wet wool and the metallic tang of impending frost. Thomas sat in the back of the cart, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands wrapped around a tin cup that held no liquid but a faint, lingering chill. He was nine years old, a age when the world is still large enough to hide...

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