The Pale Verdict
The air in the chapel of St. Jude’s was thick with the scent of damp limestone and the metallic tang of old blood, a smell that had seeped into the very mortar of the walls over centuries of whispered confessions and silent prayers, so that Sergeant Elias Thorne could taste it on his tongue as he pressed his back against the cold stone of the altar, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps...
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