The Pale Altar
The old stone keep of Blackwood Hill did not look like a fortress anymore. It looked like a jawbone, bleached and cracked by centuries of wind, standing in the middle of a meadow that had long since forgotten the taste of blood. Elias stood before the main gate, his sword sheathed but his hand resting on the hilt out of habit, a motion so ingrained it felt less like readiness and more like a...
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