The Pale Altar
The iron gate of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not creak, for it had been oiled by hands that trembled with devotion, and the silence within the stone corridors was so profound that one could hear the blood rushing in one’s own ears, a rhythmic, wet percussion that served as the only clock in a place where time had ceased to hold meaning. Commander Elias Thorne stood alone in the central...
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