The Pale Tower
The pen slips from your fingers and rolls across the desk, a small, dark cylinder spinning against the mahogany before coming to rest against the edge of your keyboard, and you stare at it, your left hand trembling in a way that has become so familiar it feels less like a symptom and more like a second, unwelcome personality. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, a tenured historian at St....
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