The Pale Tower
The count was precise: fourteen stitches in the left thigh, three days of fever, and a debt to the castle that could not be paid in coin. Elias lay on the straw mattress, the damp cold of the stone floor seeping through the thin wool blanket, and he counted the hours until the next watch, a ritual that had replaced prayer long before the siege began. The infirmary smelled of boiled linen and...
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