The Pale Tower
The name was spoken by the gatekeeper, a man whose breath smelled of damp wool and stale tobacco, and it sounded like a summons to a debt I had not yet paid. "Mr. Thorne, the Lord is expecting you," he said, his voice flat and devoid of the warmth that usually preceded such a greeting. I adjusted the collar of my coat, feeling the roughness of the wool against my neck, and stepped past the iron...
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