The Pale Tower
The dream was not a dream but a rehearsal, a pale and vertical rehearsal of the spine that Elias Thorne had carried for thirty years, standing in the center of a void where the snow fell upward, a tower of white stone rising from the ice, its shadow stretching out like a finger pointing at the ground, detached from the sun, moving with a slow, deliberate malice that suggested the wind was not...
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