The Pale Altar
The iron gate of the St. Jude’s Archive was not merely closed; it was sealed by a silence so profound it seemed to possess a physical weight, pressing against the eardrums like the depth of the ocean. I stood before it, the brass key in my hand tarnished by the sweat of my palm, the metal cold and indifferent to the fever that had consumed my spirit for three days. Inside, the air was still,...
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