The Pale Altar
The stone was cold, but the air in the crypt was wet. You pressed your thumb against the seal on the door, feeling the slight give of the lead. "It is not a failure of containment, Elias," Thorne said, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "It is a failure of discipline." You did not answer. You were thirty-two, a senior warden of the Order of the Pale Altar, and you had spent the last six...
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