The Pale Path
The chapel stood at the end of the lane like a tooth pulled from a rotten jaw, its limestone skin pitted by centuries of rain and neglect. Elias Thorne sat on the cold stone steps, his back against the altar wall, watching the fog roll off the moor. It was not a natural fog, he knew. It was the breath of the institution, the visible weight of the Order’s silence pressing down on the village of...
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