The Pale Bridge

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2026-08-18 07:14:25 -

The Pale Bridge

The banquet hall of the Aetherium did not smell of food, but of ozone and wet slate, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. We sat at a long table carved from a single block of obsidian, its surface so polished it reflected the chandeliers of floating gas above us, turning the air into a lattice of cold, blue light. My wife, Elara, sat opposite me. Her face was composed, her...

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