The Pale Tower
The mud sucked at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, viscous pull that made every step a negotiation with the earth, the freezing water of the river rising past his ankles as he tracked the faint disturbance in the sedge where the smuggler had vanished into the fog. His rifle, a standard-issue carbine that felt heavier than usual in his numb hands, was leveled at the gray nothingness, his trigger...
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