The Pale Altar
You think you are clever. You think the game is yours to win. "You missed," says Mr. Alder. He does not look up from his ledger. His pen scratches against the paper like a mouse running over dry leaves. "The count is wrong. You are owed nothing." You stand by the door. The bell above it jingles, a sharp, brittle sound. It is not a welcome. It is a warning. You are twelve. You are small. You are...
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