The Pale Altar
The petition form lay on my desk, the ink still wet and smelling of iron, a bureaucratic stain in the center of the parchment. I had filled it out three times that morning, my hand trembling not from the cold in the archive, but from the sheer, suffocating weight of the words I had chosen: *Request for Release of Restricted Relic for Medical Intervention*. The High Council had stamped it with a...
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