The Pale Tower
The air in the vault did not move; it sat upon Elias Thorne’s shoulders like a wet wool coat, heavy and suffocating, pressing the breath from his lungs in shallow, ragged sips. He was forty-two, a man whose hands were mapped with the fine white scars of broken glass and the calluses of a life spent balancing light against stone, and he stood in the windowless heart of his late wife’s estate,...
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