The Pale Altar

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2026-08-18 03:24:50 -

The Pale Altar

The dream was not of war, but of breakfast. It was a long, silver table set in a room that had no walls, only a horizon line of fog. On the table lay a loaf of bread, sliced into perfect, pale discs. The smell was heavy, yeasty, and sweet, like a memory of a life one had not yet lived. Thomas stood at the head of the table. He was wearing his uniform, the wool rough against his neck, the...

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