The Pale Tower
The left hand of Elias Thorne had begun to fail him before the first frost of that autumn, a subtle, mechanical surrender that started in the knuckles and worked its way down to the fingertips like a slow leak in a ship’s hull. It was a hand that had held rifles, signed orders, and once, in a moment of desperate clarity, broken the jaw of a man who had threatened his younger brother, yet now it...
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