The Pale Protocol
The ink on the parchment is still wet, or perhaps it is merely the dampness of the cellar seeping into the vellum, blurring the edges of the words you have just written, a confession of your own making that feels less like a record and more like a burial. You sit in the corner of the scriptorium, where the air is thick with the smell of oak gall, iron, and the slow decay of old paper, and you...
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