The Pale Protocol
The letter is dated the third day of the frost. You write it by candlelight in a room that smells of damp stone and old blood. The ink is black. The paper is thin. You are not a poet. You are a soldier. Or perhaps you were. Now you are something else. A function. A tool of the state. The castle stands on the cliff. It is white. It is old. It is you. This is the secret the High Command keeps....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews