The Pale Altar

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2026-08-17 19:12:45 -

The Pale Altar

The loom shrieked. It was a sound like tearing silk, or perhaps a dying breath, but in the white room, it was simply the sound of work. Elias held the shuttle. His hands were steady. They were always steady. The threads were not cotton. They were not wool. They were veins. They were memories. They were the thin, translucent strands of a life he had agreed to sell, piece by piece, to the Bureau...

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