The Pale Altar

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2026-08-24 23:57:00 -

The Pale Altar

The heat in Alfama was a physical weight, pressing down on the limestone steps until the air itself felt thick and unbreathable, a static charge that made the hair on my arms stand on end. I was Luis Duarte, a scribe for the toll-bridge widow, and I was already sweating through my shirt by the time I reached the top of the hill. The school was closing in three hours, and the bus would not come...

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