The Faded Paradox
The cornerstone was cold, heavier than it looked, its surface pitted with the damp of the cellar where Thomas Vane had kept it for three years. He held it in both hands, the rough stone biting into his calluses, the weight of it a familiar anchor against the drifting uncertainty of his exile. It was a piece of the Black Tower, the structure he had designed for King Edward before the accusations...
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