The Pale Altar

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2026-08-23 05:33:03 -

The Pale Altar

The quill was wet, the ink black and cold in the bowl, and Brother Thomas held it with a grip that had turned his knuckles white against the damp cold of the scriptorium. He was thirty-two years old, though he looked older, his face hollowed out by the thinness that came from eating less than the other brothers and working longer than was strictly permitted, all in service of a single, crushing...

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