The Pale Altar
The parchment was wet, the ink running into the grooves of the wood grain like blood into a wound, and Elias stood before the High Inquisitor with his hands trembling so violently that the quill scratched a jagged line across the bottom margin. "You ask for release, Scribe," the Inquisitor said, his voice low and dry as the dust in the archives. "You ask to leave the Pale Order after twelve...
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