The Pale Altar
The chisel slipped, biting a thin line into the oak before I could correct my hand. The wood groaned, a low, tectonic sound that seemed to rise from the foundation of the house itself. I pulled my hand back, my fingers trembling not from the cold, but from the sudden, violent awareness of my own insignificance. The piece was ruined. Not the whole commission, mind you, but the central motif, the...
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