The Pale Dance

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2026-08-18 01:05:12 -

The Pale Dance

The rain against the glass of the War Room was not a sound so much as a vibration, a low-frequency thrum that seemed to settle in the marrow of my bones, a constant, wet whisper that spoke of time eroding stone and spirit alike. I sat at the head of the long oak table, the wood dark and polished by decades of hands that had gripped it in anger, in fear, and in the hollow silence of men who had...

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