The Pale Protocol
The letter is dated November fourteenth, and the ink has bled into the ragged edge of the parchment, spreading like a bruise under the skin. You hold it in your hands, the fingers stained black, the paper cold against your palms despite the heat of the brazier. It is the last entry in the ledger, the final record of the season before the frost took the valley. You are Thomas, the elder of the...
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