The Pale Altar
The ledger showed forty-seven days remaining until the Feast of St. Jude, which meant Elias Thorne had forty-seven days to cut a miracle into a slab of white oak that had already begun to rot at the heart. He weighed the burin in his palm, a cold, heavy steel that felt less like a tool and more like a verdict, and looked at the panel leaning against the north wall of the workshop. The smell of...
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