The Pale Altar
The bell of St. Jude’s did not ring so much as it shuddered, a convulsive twitch in the throat of the morning, announcing to the sleepy valley of Ashen Hollow that the world had shifted on its axis. It was a sound that defied the physics of bronze and air, a deep, resonant moan that seemed to originate not from the tower, but from the marrow of the stones themselves. Elias Thorne, the town’s...
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