The Pale Altar

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2026-08-24 09:31:13 -

The Pale Altar

The quill cuts your thumb. You do not pull it back. You watch the bead of blood swell, dark and heavy, before it mixes with the black ink on the parchment. The smell is iron and old paper, the scent of the scriptorium where the light comes in thin, grey slivers from the high windows. You are twelve. Your name is Wren. You are the Abbot’s apprentice, though he calls you a tool, a vessel, a thing...

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