The Pale Protocol
The mortar grinds beneath your stone, a rhythmic, grinding friction that echoes in the hollows of your skull. You are not writing this to ask for mercy, for mercy is a currency that has not been minted in the Citadel for three centuries. You are writing this to record the texture of the end, so that if anyone ever finds these pages, they will know that the silence was not empty, but heavy with...
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