The Pale Dance
The bread was stale, a fact that Sir Julian Thorne noted with the detached precision of a man who had spent thirty years cataloging the decay of empires and the slow rot of his own soul, and he held the dark, crusty loaf in his gloved hands as if it were a severed limb he had found in the mud of the battlefield, the texture gritty and lifeless against the leather, a mirror of the spiritual...
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