The Pale Altar
The departure from the village of Oakhaven was not marked by tears, nor by the frantic clutching of hands that one might expect from those who are severed from their roots, but rather by a peculiar, almost clinical lightness in the air, as if the very atmosphere had exhaled a breath it had held for centuries. Arthur Pendelton stood on the cobblestones of the main square, watching the carriage...
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