The Pale Tower
The name Elias Thorne hung in the air of the faculty office, called out by the clerk with a flatness that suggested a line number on a ledger rather than a person. Elias paused in the doorway, his hand still resting on the brass knob, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm. He was forty years old, a scholar of the city’s founding myths, and he carried a sheaf of papers that felt heavier than...
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