The Pale Altar
The dampness in the condemned cell of the Inquisitorial Archive did not smell of rot, but of old stone and the faint, metallic tang of dried blood that had seeped into the mortar over centuries, a scent that Silas Vane had long since learned to associate with the comfort of order. He stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the single, impossible bloom of...
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