The Pale Altar
The silence in the Hall of Records is not an absence of sound, but a presence, thick and heavy as wet wool, pressing against your eardrums until you can hear the blood rushing in your own temples. You sit at the long oak table, the wood polished to a mirror sheen by centuries of anxious hands, and before you lies the Ledger of Sins, a book so thick it could stop a sword, its spine cracked and...
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