The Pale Tower
The taste of iron and ash was still clinging to the back of Thomas Bradshaw’s tongue, a metallic film that no amount of water could scrub away, and as he stood amidst the smoking ruins of the watchtower, the air around him did not behave as air should, but rather thickened into a viscous, grey gel that hummed with a low, subsonic frequency which seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of his...
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