The Pale Altar
The chisel struck the granite with a sound like a bone snapping, the shock traveling up Elias’s wrist and settling deep in the joint, a dull, grinding ache that he had long since learned to ignore. He was forty-five years old, a stonecutter in the village of Oakhaven, and he was in the middle of a war that no one else seemed to understand was being fought. The enemy was not the stone, which lay...
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