The Pale Altar
The argument was already three minutes old when the walls of the Institute began to breathe. It was a subtle, rhythmic expansion, like the chest of a giant sleeping under the floorboards, but to Elias Thorne, who had spent forty years cataloging the silence of other people’s sins, it sounded like a scream. He stood in the center of the Grand Archive, a room so vast that the air in it felt thin...
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