The Pale Banner
The dream is always the same, a recursive loop of gray stone and fading ink. You stand before a vault door that breathes, its iron surface etched with a seal so old the metal has forgotten its shape. You try to read the inscription, but the letters bleed, turning into a dark, viscous fluid that drips onto your shoes. In the dream, you are not Elias Thorne, the senior archivist, but a boy of...
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