The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-18 03:15:14 -

The Pale Meridian

The dream always began with the sound of the chisel striking the oak, a rhythmic, dull thud that seemed to come from inside my own skull rather than the workshop. I was standing in a field of white ash, the air thick with the scent of decaying leaves and iron, and in my hands I held not a sword, but a stylus of bone, carving a name into the air. The letters did not fade. They hung there,...

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