The Pale Tower
The letter from Marcus lay on the workbench, the ink still faintly wet where it had been stamped, a small, dark wound in the center of the pale stone dust that coated your hands. You are Elias Thorne, and for thirty years you have believed that your life was defined by the mortar you mixed, by the precision of the cut, by the unyielding verticality of the St. Jude’s bell tower, a structure that...
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