The Pale Tower
The pot on the iron stove was not merely boiling; it was screaming, a high, thin shriek of steam that cut through the thick, stagnant air of the alchemist’s workshop, a sound that had become so woven into the fabric of Silas Thorne’s existence that he no longer heard it as noise but as a pulse, a second heartbeat synchronized with the rhythmic stirring of the wooden ladle against the bubbling,...
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