The Pale Tower
The parchment lay on the mahogany table, its edges curled like dried leaves, and I traced the faded ink with a finger that felt as though it belonged to a stranger. The winter solstice banquet was in full swing in the hall beyond the heavy oak doors, the clatter of silverware and the low murmur of the court’s dignitaries seeping through the wood like water through a cracked dam. I was fifty-two...
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