The Pale Altar

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2026-08-22 19:00:56 -

The Pale Altar

The quill tip hovered a hair’s breadth above the vellum, trembling with a violence that had nothing to do with the cold. Thomas Bradshaw pressed his wrist against the oak desk, anchoring himself, his breath held in his chest like a swallowed stone. The candle flame, guttering in the draft from the scriptorium’s high windows, cast long, jagged shadows that seemed to lean toward the altar in the...

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