The Pale Altar
The first shard of the obsidian mirror struck the floor with a sound like a bone snapping, and the cold that rushed out of the crack was not merely a draft but a physical weight, settling into the marrow of your knees and freezing the sweat on your brow. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and for the last decade you have been the sole caretaker of Ashwood Manor, a decaying estate on the...
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