The Pale Altar

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2026-08-21 15:52:19 -

The Pale Altar

The ink was drying on the parchment. It bled like a wound. Thomas sat in the high chair. His fingers were numb. The cold bit into them. He looked at the Mayor. Mayor Aldous stood by the fire. He smoked a pipe. The smoke curled up. It smelled of tobacco and rot. Thomas was a scribe. He wrote the laws. He wrote the names. He was the town’s memory. His hands were his tools. They were also his sin....

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