The Pale Altar
The iron gate groaned, a sound like a man clearing his throat after a long silence, and Sir Alistair Holloway stood in the courtyard, his hand resting not on the hilt of his sword but on the spine of the ancient oak tree that rose from the center of the stone floor, its roots cracking the mortar of the family mausoleum, a living thing that had grown through the history of the house like a vein...
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