The Pale Tower
The ink in the Pale Tower does not come from the oak galls or the iron salts of the apothecary, but from the veins of those who serve it, a truth you have known for six years yet only now feel in the cold, hollow ache of your own wrists. You are Elias, thirty-four years old, though the mirror in your small cell shows a man of forty-five, his hair thinning to a pale ghost of its former black,...
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