The Pale Altar
The dream had no floor, only a vast, humming expanse of white tile that stretched out into a static gray horizon. In the center of this sterile purgatory stood a single, ancient oak tree. Its bark was the color of dried blood, and its leaves were not leaves at all, but thousands of small, human eyes, blinking in unison with a slow, rhythmic cadence. Maren stood before it, her white coat...
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