The Pale Altar
The letter from the Imperial Sanatorium was heavy, its paper thick as cardstock, smelling faintly of sulfur and old iron. Arthur Vane held it in his trembling hands, the ink blurring slightly as he tried to read the terms of his admission, while Elara stood behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder with a weight that felt less like comfort and more like an anchor. He did not look up. He...
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