The Pale Altar

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2026-08-22 19:46:35 -

The Pale Altar

The solvent bottle was warm in my hands, the glass sweating a faint, oily mist that smelled of turpentine and old fear. I uncapped it, the cork resisting with a dry crack, and poured a single drop onto the parchment. The ink on the page did not sit still; it writhed, a black squiggle pulling itself back into the fibers of the vellum as if ashamed of being seen. I am Elara, thirty-two, and I...

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