The Pale Tower
The white ash falls in the dream, a fine, dry snow that settles on the tongue and tastes of nothing, of the absolute void that precedes the breath. You wake in the damp cellar of the Pale Tower, the stone cold against your cheek, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of fear. You are Elias Thorne, a scholar exiled from the university for heresy and now a prisoner of...
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