The Pale Altar
The ink on the nib is dry, a black scab forming in the slit, but your hand shakes so violently that the pen jumps across the page, scratching a jagged line through the margin. You are Elias Thorne, a scholar of folklore who has spent twenty years cataloguing the myths of the dead, and you are currently dying of a fever that smells of wet rot and old copper. The house around you, the ancestral...
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