The Pale Fracture
You wake in the antechamber of the Bone Cathedral, a vast, subterranean vault where the air tastes of copper and stale incense, and you realize with a cold, technical precision that your left hand is missing, severed cleanly at the wrist by a force that left no blood, only a smooth, pale seal of skin that looks like cured parchment. You are Thomas Bradshaw, or at least you were, until the...
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