The Pale Tower
In the mist-choked garrison, silence was not the absence of sound but a physical weight, pressing against the eardrums like deep water. Kenji Inoue gripped his rifle, the wood slick with the sweat of his palms, his knuckles white as bone as he advanced through the rows of machiya houses where the moss had eaten the stone steps whole. He was thirty-four years old, a sergeant in the Council of...
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