The Pale Protocol
14th of November, Year of the Silver Frost. The ink is freezing in the well before it dries, a sticky, dark sludge that clings to the nib like a guilty conscience. I am writing this from the cold stone floor of the Archive, where the air tastes of iron and old dust. My hands are shaking. Not from the cold, though the draft howling through the high windows could freeze the breath in a man’s...
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