The Pale Altar
The notice was pinned to the blackboard with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and curling at the edges, listing the new production quotas in a cramped, bureaucratic hand that seemed to apologize for nothing. Elias Vane read it twice, his finger tracing the line that demanded a forty percent increase in output by the end of the quarter, the ink smudging slightly under his thumb. He looked up...
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