The Pale Altar
The drawing is merely meat, the Minister said, his voice flat as a stone dropped into a deep well. You stood before him, Elias, Head of Ceremonial, your spine a rigid rod of bone and old duty. On the table lay the anatomical study of the human hand, your son Julian’s work. It was a masterpiece of precision, every tendon mapped, every ligament rendered in graphite so fine it seemed to breathe....
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