The Pale Altar
The rain in the Blackwood Valley did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a cold, heavy mist that soaked through my wool coat and settled into the marrow of my bones. I stood at the edge of the village square, the mud sucking at the heels of my boots, clutching a porcelain object that had once been whole but was now fractured down the center, a jagged white line running through the face of a...
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