The Pale Echo
The alabaster shard cut Elias Thorne’s thumb, a thin red line that wept onto the stone floor. He held the fragment up to the dying light of the crypt, watching the dust motes dance in the beam from the single lantern he carried. It was a small piece, no larger than a sparrow’s egg, but it was the keystone. Without it, the Vane Chapel’s heart remained a broken thing, and without the heart, the...
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