The Pale Altar
The iron bars had been rusted shut for three years, a weight of decay that Sir Aldric Thorne knew by the heavy, cold drag of his sword against the stone floor. He counted the steps down into the crypt, one, two, three, forty in total, the number matching the years of his life spent in service to the Crown and to the rigid, unyielding expectations of his house. The air down here was thick with...
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