The Pale Tower
The porcelain shattered not with a sound, but with a sensation, a cold, wet fracture that ran from the base of my skull to the tips of my fingers, a silence so absolute it seemed to suck the air out of the room, leaving only the taste of iron and old dust on my tongue. I stood in the center of the circular chamber, the floor beneath me not stone, but a shifting mosaic of cracked mirrors, each...
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