The Pale Tower
The order was pinned to the oak desk with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and brittle at the edges, smelling faintly of damp stone and old sweat. Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old and senior constable of the Blackwood garrison, read the figures for the third time, his thumb tracing the line that detailed the final payment for his father’s medical debts, a sum that had consumed the last of...
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