The Pale Tower
The air in the vault did not smell of rot, as one might expect in a place where the dead are kept for centuries, but of ozone and cold iron, a scent that clung to the back of my throat and refused to leave, a metallic taste that coated the tongue and seemed to vibrate in the teeth with a low, persistent hum that was less a sound than a pressure against the eardrums. I stood alone in the center...
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