The Pale Tower
Thorne, you are late. The voice came from the top of the stairs, cold and sharp as a blade slipped between the ribs of the afternoon. I stood in the shadow of the reception desk, my left hand resting on the polished mahogany, feeling nothing. It had started as a tickle, a faint static charge in the fingers, but now it was a void, a space where sensation used to be. I had come to finalize the...
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