The Pale Altar
The knife was dull, and Elias Thorne knew it by the way the whetstone shrieked against the blade, a sound like a rat being dragged across the floorboards of the empty scriptorium. He did not look up from the work, his hands steady despite the tremor that had settled into his bones with the damp chill of the November night, because to look up was to see the altar, and to see the altar was to see...
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