The Pale Altar
The storm did not break the glass; it shattered the world. Elias Vane woke to the sound of splintering oak and the wet, heavy smell of rain that had no business being inside. He lay still, his heart hammering against his ribs, listening to the silence that followed the crash. It was a thick, suffocating quiet, broken only by the steady, reverse tick of a single mechanism. The workshop, his...
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