The Pale Altar
The parchment in your hand is damp, not with rain, but with the sweat of the scribe’s fear. You stand before the King, who is not the man you once knew as your mentor, but a vessel stretched thin over a frame that refuses to decay. The hall smells of roasting lamb and old copper, a scent that coats the back of your throat like a thick fog. You are Elias, forty-two, a scholar whose ink-stained...
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