The Pale Altar
The ink bled into the parchment like a wound that refused to close, spreading its black, viscous tendrils across the white expanse of the royal decree. Elias Thorne stood before the High Chancellor’s desk, his fingers trembling not from the cold that permeated the stone walls of the Council Chamber, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the sigil he had just witnessed being applied to the...
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