The Pale Altar
The lamp flickered, a sickly yellow pulse that did nothing to cut through the dense, metallic fog hanging in the air of the Blackwood Mine. Elias Thorne wiped a smear of sweat and dust from his forehead, his fingers trembling not from the cold, which was a biting, industrial chill that seeped through his woolen coat, but from the vibration in the rock face before him. He was forty years old, a...
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