The Pale Tower
The iron mirror in the window of the apothecary on High Street had begun to crack. It was a thin, white fracture, no wider than a hair, that ran from the top left corner down toward the center, splitting the reflection of the cobblestones into two distinct, disjointed worlds. Elias saw it every morning as he walked to the mill, the glass trembling with the vibration of his own footsteps. He did...
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