The Pale Fracture
The rain had not stopped in the village of Oakhaven for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the watchtower, a rhythmic, hollow sound that Thomas Whitmore had long since learned to ignore. He sat on the cold stone floor, his back against the damp wall, watching the mist curl through the narrow slit of the window. Below, the town lay silent, its streets empty of the usual chatter,...
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