The Pale Tower
The ledger listed forty-two hours of overtime, three sacks of quicklime, and the weight of a single, unreturned promise. You stood at the iron gates of the Whitehall Palace, the air thick with the metallic tang of impending rain and the low, thrumming vibration of artillery drills that had begun three miles east. Elara stood beside you, her coat buttoned to the chin, her face a mask of polite...
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