The Pale Altar
"Another day, another mistake, Thorne." The voice of Mr. Vane hung in the air, dry as the iron filings that coated the floor of the Ironworks. Elias Thorne stood before the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly under the tension. He was thirty-two years old, a clerk of six years, and he had come to ask for the promotion that would pay off his...
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