The Pale Altar
The champagne flutes shattered against the marble floor of the Meridian Institute’s grand atrium, a sound like ice breaking on a winter lake, and in the sudden silence, you watched the trowel slip from your rigid, white-knuckled grip. It clattered against the base of the glass display case, cracking the seal, and you stood there, frozen, as the liquid gold of the gala spilled out onto your...
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