The Pale Altar
The banquet hall was not a room but a state of mind, suspended in a twilight that belonged to no season. You sat at the head of the long table, the wood polished to a mirror sheen that reflected not your face, but the hollow space where it used to be. Around you, the figures moved with a jerky, mechanical grace, their faces blurred by a mist that tasted of iron and old rain. This was the Gilded...
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