The Pale Tower
The tower stood at the edge of the village, a pale finger of stone pointing accusingly at the gray sky. It was not a ruin, exactly, but it was certainly not a home. It was a structure of pure geometry, devoid of windows on the lower floors, a vertical line that severed the horizon. Maren sat in her workshop, the smell of linseed oil and damp wool thick in the air. She was a woman of forty, with...
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