The Pale Tower
The alchemist’s hands, stained the color of dried blood and crushed rose petals, trembled not from age but from the sheer, terrifying weight of the knowledge he had carried for forty years. In the high, airless chamber of the Spire, where the light of the sun was filtered through glass so thick it turned the world into a murky, greenish twilight, Elias Thorne stared at the vessel before him. It...
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