The Pale Altar
The rain had not ceased for nine days, a persistent, grey veil that turned the cobblestones of the village of Oakhaven into slick mirrors reflecting the dull, leaden sky. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair of his study, the silence of the house pressing against his eardrums like the water against the foundation. He was a man of fifty winters, his hair the color of ash, his hands still...
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