The Pale Tower
The fog in Vael did not lift; it merely thinned to a bruised grey when the sun attempted its rise, a persistent membrane that clung to the cobblestones and the high, pale walls of the city. Elias Thorne arrived with his tools strapped to his back, the weight of them familiar and heavy against his shoulders, a forty-five-year-old man whose hands were mapped with the white scars of chisels and...
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