The Pale Tower
I woke with the taste of copper and old dust in my mouth, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat like a bad coin. The cellar air was thick, heavy with the smell of damp stone and the slow, sweet rot of apples that had been forgotten in their crates. I sat up, my joints cracking with the sound of dry twigs breaking, and looked at my hands. They were trembling, not from fear, but from...
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