The Pale Altar
You walk the road with the weight of a sword that is not a sword, but a coat, draped over your shoulders like a shroud of grey wool that has absorbed the dampness of a thousand rainy nights, and you do not know if you are walking toward the village or if the village is walking toward you, for the fog has swallowed the horizon and the only thing that feels real is the rough, woven texture of the...
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