The Pale Altar

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2026-08-19 01:50:02 -

The Pale Altar

The banquet was a lie of steam and salt. We sat in the long hall of the Whitmore Mill, the air thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and wet wool. The workers ate with their heads down. The foremen ate with their heads down. I sat at the head of the table, not as a guest, but as a ledger. My father, Arthur, had built this mill with his hands. He had built it to feed us. Now the mill fed only...

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