The Pale Altar

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2026-08-19 23:08:55 -

The Pale Altar

The bread was stale. I cut a slice. The knife was dull. It scraped against the board. A sound of friction. A sound of effort. The flour dusted my hands. White powder. Like snow. Like bone ash. My master watched. He did not blink. He sat in the high chair. His hands were clean. His nails were long. He held a cup of wine. Dark red. Thick. He drank. He did not taste it. He swallowed it. It was a...

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