The Pale Tower
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in; it simply is, a permanent, damp presence that settles into the joints of the stone houses and the bones of the people who live within them. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and for two decades you have stood behind the counter of the apothecary on Miller’s Lane, grinding dried roots and measuring out tinctures with the quiet precision of a man who...
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