The Pale Tower
The brass key was cold, heavier than it looked, and it sat in Elias Thorne’s palm like a dead bird. He turned it over, watching the light catch the worn teeth, before sliding it into the lock of the outpost’s supply closet. The click was sharp, final, cutting through the low hum of the generator that had been running since dawn. Outside, the fog was thick enough to chew on, a pale gray wall...
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