The Pale Tower
The cold in the cellar of St. Jude’s did not merely sit in the air; it settled into the marrow, a damp, grey weight that pressed against the back of Elias’s neck like a stone slab. You are Elias, forty-two years old, and your life has narrowed to the width of a quill and the tremor that now shakes your left hand, a violent, rhythmic spasm that makes the ink dance across the vellum in jagged,...
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