The Pale Altar
The ink will not dry, Thomas. You must understand that before you touch the stone again. The elder’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of a hammer striking an anvil, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards of the scriptorium. He stood by the window, where the winter light was thin and gray, casting long, cold shadows across the desk where I sat. Before me lay the Pale...
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