The Pale Altar
The fire started at 4:17 in the morning, a slow orange pulse that swallowed the dark of the barracks and spilled across the wet cobblestones of the courtyard. It did not roar. It hissed. It ate. Captain Elias Thorne stood by the window, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the sudden, violent clarity of his own reflection in the glass. He was fifty-two years old. His face was a map...
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