The Pale Altar
The white stone altar stood in the center of the dream, stark against the gray fog, its surface unmarked and cold. Elara Vane woke with the taste of chalk dust in her mouth, the phantom weight of the slab pressing against her chest. She was thirty-four, a senior archivist at the Ministry of Internal Records, and she had a deadline. The Silence Protocol was due by noon, a bureaucratic purge of...
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