The Pale Altar
The bell tower did not ring for the dead, but for the living who had forgotten how to breathe, a low, groaning thrum that vibrated in the marrow of the stone and settled into the lungs of the court like a heavy, wet fog, and within that fog stood the warden, a man whose name had been stripped from the registry by the King’s decree, leaving only a number, a smudge of ink that suggested a dog or...
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