The Pale Tower
The dream was always the same: a tower of pale stone, humming with a low, mechanical vibration that seeped into the marrow. Sir Aldric woke in the grey half-light of the keep’s upper chamber, his joints stiff and screaming with the damp that had settled into his bones over the last decade. He was fifty years old, and the ache was no longer a guest but a resident, a constant reminder that the...
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