The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet, or perhaps it is only the dampness of the fen that has seeped through the parchment, but the words tremble on the page like a leaf caught in a sudden gust. You are writing this by the light of a single tallow candle in the small, stone-walled room that serves as your cell, though the term implies a confinement that is less physical than spiritual. The air smells of wet...
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