The Pale Tower
The steam hissed from the valves of the central boiler, a sharp, percussive hiss that cut through the thick, sulfurous air of the subterranean archive, where the walls were lined not with books but with rows of towering, pale iron cylinders that hummed with a low, subsonic vibration, a frequency that Elias Thorne felt not in his ears but in the marrow of his aging bones, a physical reminder of...
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