The Pale Altar
The train hissed through the station, a long, mournful exhalation that seemed to strip the morning of its remaining warmth, and Elias Thorne stepped off the platform with the weary precision of a man who had long ago stopped expecting the world to offer him anything but the cold, hard facts of his own survival. He carried a single leather satchel, worn to a soft, malleable gray by years of...
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