The Pale Altar
14th of October, 1893 The wind here does not blow; it hunts. It finds the gaps in your coat, the loose thread at your collar, and pulls until the fabric tears. You are Elara, thirty-two years old, a widow of three years, standing at the edge of the Ashen Wastes where the soil turns to grey powder. Your sister, Maren, lies in the tent behind you, her breathing shallow and wet, the wasting...
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