The Pale Altar
The ledger lay open on the stone table, the ink still wet with the magistrate’s signature, and Thomas Bradshaw stared at the final line where his own name was struck through in red, a mark that looked less like a correction and more like a wound. He had served ten years, ten years of hauling gravel and scrubbing the magistrate’s floors, all to atone for a crime that had never been fully...
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