The Pale Protocol
The letter is written in a hand that has seen too much, the ink faded to a bruised violet, and it is dated three days before the sky turned to ash. You are holding it now, your fingers trembling not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of what you did, and what you were forced to do. The paper is thick, expensive, the kind that only the Commanders in the high spires use, and it smells...
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