The Pale Tower
The heavy oak door of the antechamber groaned as it was forced open by your small hands, a sound that seemed to scrape the silence out of the stone walls, and you stood there, breathing hard, the weight of the iron key still cold against your palm, your fingers stained with the dark, viscous ink of the scribes who had watched you enter with eyes that held no pity, only a weary, bureaucratic...
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