The Pale Tower
The wool coat had begun to rot before the winter snows even thought to descend upon the gray, iron-ribbed walls of the Blackstone Garrison, a slow and silent disintegration that started at the seams where the sweat of three successive campaigns had been trapped for so long that it had turned into a kind of damp, clinging paste, binding the coarse fibers together in a stiff, dark shell that no...
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