The Pale Tower
The obsidian seal did not break so much as it bled. Captain Elias Thorne stood before the shattered remains of the gate in the deepest cellar of the Palace of Whitehall, the year being 1912, and watched the black liquid creep across the flagstones like a slow, inky tide. He was forty-two years old, a man who had spent two decades guarding the archives of the Crown, a duty that had long since...
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