The Pale Tower
The iron gate of the manor, that ancient sentinel of rust and regret, groaned in the wind with a sound like a dying man’s last breath, and I stood before it, my boots caked in the red clay of the valley below, feeling the weight of the long walk up the hill press against my spine as if the earth itself were trying to pull me back into the grave from which it had recently exhumed a secret. I had...
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