The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet and smelling of iron and rain, a scent that cut through the stale air of the barracks. It was from the Commandant, and it bore the seal of the High Watch, a black circle with a white eye that seemed to blink in the dim light of your desk. You held the parchment in your hands, your fingers stained with the soot of the hearth and the dirt of the...
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