The Pale Tower
Thorne. The word came from the dark, sharp as a crack of a whip, followed by the wet slap of boots on mud. Elias Thorne did not turn. He kept his eyes on the gray, static hum of the Pale Tower, which stood three hundred yards away, a jagged protrusion of stone that seemed to drink the light from the November air. The cold was not a temperature; it was a presence, a heavy hand pressing against...
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