The Pale Altar
The banquet hall smelled of roasted duck and stale lavender. You sat in the corner, the fabric of your charcoal suit feeling less like cloth and more like a second skin you had not yet realized you were wearing. Around you, the staff of the Meridian Logistics Group laughed, their voices a sharp percussion against the crystal chandeliers. You raised your glass. You drank. The liquid burned a...
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