The Pale Protocol
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the center of the oak desk, and Elias Thorne did not look up as the door to his office burst open. He was in the middle of the final clause of the report, the nib of his quill scratching a rhythm against the parchment that sounded suspiciously like the grinding of teeth, when the wind from the hallway whipped his hair...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews