The Pale Tower
The air in the hall tastes of stale wine and expensive rot. You stand at the edge of the mahogany table, your hand resting on the cold surface, feeling the grain of the wood like the pulse of a dying animal. The chandelier above you, a constellation of cut crystal, does not flicker. It burns with a steady, indifferent white light that strips the shadows from the corners of the room, leaving no...
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