The Pale Altar

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2026-08-22 20:09:10 -

The Pale Altar

Penhaligon, come down here. The voice was my father’s, though he had been dead for six years, and the sound of it echoing in the drafty stairwell of our manor house in October of 1893 made my hands tremble so violently that I dropped the glass vial I was holding. It shattered on the flagstones, a sharp, bright crack that seemed to shatter the silence of the room with it. I did not pick up the...

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