The Pale Tower

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2026-08-22 23:33:00 -

The Pale Tower

The quill was wet, the tip black and sharp as a splinter, and Elias held it between his thumb and forefinger, the feather still damp from the inkwell. He was thirty-two years old, and his hands smelled of oak gall and iron, the scent of the work that had bound him to Lord Vane for six years. The debt was simple in its brutality: one hundred pounds, a sum that would take a scribe a lifetime to...

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