The Pale Altar
Elara, come out, the magistrate’s voice boomed from the street, a sound that seemed to shake the very plaster of the cellar walls where I huddled with my mortar and pestle, the stone cold against my palms as I ground dried willow bark into a fine, grey powder. The heavy oak door above us groaned in its frame, the hinges screaming a protest against the brute force of the men hammering at the...
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