The Pale Protocol
The letter lay on the desk. It was thin. It was white. It breathed. Silas Ashworth stared at it. The ink was wet. It glistened. It was black. He was a soldier. He had been a soldier for forty years. His hands were hard. His hands were still. The room was small. The room was cold. The air was thick. A mirror stood in the corner. It was tall. It was dark. It watched him. Silas watched it. His...
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