The Pale Altar
The iron gate groaned, a sound like the tearing of old sinew, as Aldric dragged his shackles across the flagstones. The air in the Chapel of St. Jude was thin, recycled, and tasted of rust and stale incense. It was a place designed for silence, yet the silence here was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against his eardrums, demanding to be broken. He was not a man anymore, in the way the...
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