The Pale Altar
The hand was red. Not the red of blood. Not yet. It was the red of a bruise waking up. A deep, violet swell beneath the skin. The hand of Captain Silas Thorne. It rested on the oak table. The wood was polished to a glassy sheen. It reflected the chandelier above. The light was cold. It was the light of an empire. It did not care who bled beneath it. Silas looked at his hand. He looked at the...
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