The Pale Tower
Georgi Adamyan had kept the ledger of wrongs for twelve years, a habit born in the salt-stiffened air of the Kenyan Rift where the scrubland of thorn and wire stretched out under a sun that bleached the bone. He stood in the rain-slicked courtyard of the Pale Tower, a structure of white stone that rose from the treaty port’s edge like a bone finger pointing at the indifferent sky, his sword...
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