The Pale Tower
The rain in the courtyard of the Pale Tower did not fall so much as it hung, a cold, gray mist that clung to the stone and the flesh alike, turning the world into a blur of wet slate and iron. Sir Aldric stood alone in the center of the square, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the leather grip worn smooth by twenty years of loyal service to the Crown. He was forty years old, a man...
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