The Pale Tower
The dream was always the same, a recurrence so precise it felt less like sleep and more like a slow, grinding erosion of the mind. Elias stood in a room made of white light, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old blood, and in the center of the floor lay the chalice, shattered into seven distinct pieces of blown glass, each shard catching the light and refracting it into a spectrum that...
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