The Pale Tower
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, cold sheet that turned the muddy tracks of the industrial park into a slurry of grey sludge and black oil, and Thomas Whitmore stood at the bottom of the hill, looking up at the pale tower, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted in the air before dissolving into the damp. He was not a man who climbed hills, nor a man who...
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