The Pale Altar
The road to Blackwood Hollow was not paved. It was a scar of mud and broken shale, winding up the side of a hill that seemed to lean against the sky. Elias Thorne walked it. His boots were heavy, soaked through at the toes. He carried nothing but a small wooden box in his left hand. Inside lay a single shard of white porcelain. It was jagged. It cut into his palm. He did not let go. He had...
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