The Pale Tower
The train hissed to a halt, the steam curling into the freezing air like a ghost refusing to leave the body. Elias Vane stepped onto the platform of St. Moritz, his fingers wrapped tightly around a leather case that contained his livelihood, and looked up at the clock tower that dominated the square. It was silent. The town council members, bundled in wool coats that smelled of wet dog and...
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