The Pale Verdict
The chisel was cold in Elias Thorne’s hand, a sliver of steel that bit into the pale slab with a sound like a bone snapping. He stood in the vaulted crypt of St. Jude’s, the air thick with the smell of damp limestone and old incense, while Abbot Corvin watched him from the shadows of the altar. The stone was smooth, almost skin-like, and it hummed against Elias’s palm, a low vibration that...
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