The Pale Altar
The stone did not fall from the sky. It was carried in, on the back of a mule, by men who wore the grey wool of the Inquisition and spoke with the clipped precision of men who had long since stopped hearing the wind. In the courtyard of the Abbey of Saint Jude, the air hung thick with the scent of wet moss and impending rot, a smell that clung to the tongue like iron. Elara Vance stood by the...
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