The Pale Altar

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2026-08-23 06:14:41 -

The Pale Altar

The rotunda smelled of wet limestone and old blood. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the circle, his sword drawn, the steel trembling slightly in his grip. He was forty-two, a man carved from the same hard wood as the city’s walls, and he was dying inside. His wife, Mara, lay three streets away, her breath shallow, her body wasting away in a sickness that no physician could name. The...

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