The Pale Protocol
The letter sat on the cold stone table, its seal unbroken, the ink dry and dark as dried blood. Elara did not open it. She knew what was inside. In the Abbey of St. Jude, silence was not an absence of sound, but a presence, heavy and suffocating, pressed against the eardrums. Outside, the autumn wind stripped the last leaves from the oaks, a rattling, skeletal sound that echoed against the...
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