The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood, a scent of lavender and decay clinging to its edges like a ghost that refused to dissipate. It was from the House of Alder, the institution that had consumed the last decade of Elias Thorne’s life, a place where the air was always thick with the particulate dust of ground herbs and the heavy, suffocating silence of men...
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