The Faded Portrait
The count was simple: three hundred and twelve steps to the base of the Spire, four hundred and six to the first landing, and God knows how many more to the top where the air grew thin and cold enough to bite the flesh. Aldric counted them as he climbed, each footfall a small, deliberate act of defiance against the tremor in his knees. He was forty-five years old, a man who had spent two...
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