The Pale Altar

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2026-08-20 01:55:42 -

The Pale Altar

The air in the cellar of the Whitmore estate did not smell of damp or rot, but of ozone and crushed violets. It was a scent that had no business existing in the dark, beneath the cobblestones of a city that had long since forgotten the name of the man who built the house. Elias sat on the cold stone floor, his knees drawn to his chest, watching the ferns. They were not ordinary ferns. Their...

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