The Pale Altar
The train hissed into the station at Harrowgate with a sound like a dying animal, the steam rising in thick, white plumes that choked the twilight sky and settled on the cobblestones like a fine, grey snow. I stepped down onto the platform, my boots heavy with the mud of the road and the weight of my uniform, the brass buttons of my tunic catching the dim gaslight in a way that felt less like...
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