The Pale Altar
The rain against the single-pane window of the administrative office at the St. Jude’s Industrial Complex did not sound like rain, but like a fine, persistent grit being poured over a stone, a texture that had worn Elias Thorne’s patience down to a translucent membrane over the last three years. At forty-two, Elias was a senior archivist, a title that in the pre-union era had carried the weight...
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