The Pale Altar
Elara. The name was called by the foreman, a man whose voice had been shredded by years of shouting over the roar of the quarry, and it hung in the dusty air of the cathedral nave like a suspended chisel. Elara did not turn. She was thirty years old, a mason’s widow with hands that had not known rest since the plague took Thomas eight months prior, and she was currently arguing with a block of...
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