The Pale Tower
The champagne flutes in the foyer of the Thorne estate rang with a frequency that had nothing to do with the clinking of glass, a low, resonant thrum that Elias felt first in the molars and then in the base of his skull. It was the hundredth anniversary of the house, a milestone that the family had approached with the wary reverence of those handling a live wire, the air thick with the scent of...
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