The Pale Protocol
The letter is written in ink that has begun to fade, the blue bleeding into a pale, bruised purple against the heavy, cream-colored parchment. You hold it with hands that still tremble, the cold of the stone floor seeping through the wool of your breeches, chilling the very marrow of your bones. You are in the cellar of the manor, a space that smells of damp earth and old, rotting wood, where...
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