The Pale Protocol
The ink dries on the vellum, a slow, viscous darkening that mirrors the bruising in your own chest, and you sit alone in the high tower of the manor house, the only light coming from a single tallow candle that gutters in the draft of the night. It is the year of the Great Silence, or so the villagers call it, a time when the old laws of the land have curdled into something superstitious and...
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