The Pale Altar

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2026-08-18 06:46:29 -

The Pale Altar

The mud on Sergeant Elias Thorne’s boots was wet, heavy, and smelled of iron and rot. He stood in the center of the Great Hall, a space so vast that the candlelight seemed to dissolve before it reached the high, vaulted ceiling. Around him, the air hummed with a low, static charge, the kind that precedes a storm or a thunderclap. He was not alone. A circle of men in immaculate grey coats stood...

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