The Pale Tower
The iron taste of blood is thick in your mouth, a metallic sludge that coats the back of your throat as you press your shoulder against the rotting timber of the doorframe. The air here is not air; it is a suspension of gray dust and sulfurous heat, swirling in slow, deliberate eddies that seem to breathe with the room itself. You are breathing hard, each inhalation a struggle against the...
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