The Pale Protocol
The ink is dry. You know this. You feel the weight of the quill in your hand, a heavy, dead thing. It is a letter. It is the last one. You write by the window. The glass is cold. Outside, the city sleeps under a grey shroud. It is a city of stone and shadow. The spires pierce the fog. The streets are empty. The bells have stopped. You are an exile. You left your home when the fever took your...
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