The Pale Tower
The strike landed flat, a dull thud that Leila Fahmy felt in the marrow of her left wrist rather than in the air. Her brother Tariq was young, his movements fluid and careless, but Leila’s body, forty years old and stiffening in the damp cold of the courtyard, no longer answered with the same grace. The oak beams overhead groaned, a low, structural complaint that matched the rhythm of her...
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