The Pale Fracture
The rain fell on the iron roof of the watchtower like a thousand small hammers, each strike a distinct, rhythmic accusation against the silence below. Elias Vane stood in the center of the platform, his boots slick with mud and condensation, his eyes fixed on the fog that swallowed the valley. He was not looking at the enemy. He was looking at the line. The pale, unyielding fracture that split...
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