The Pale Protocol
The bowl shatters. Not breaks. Shatters. You hold the shards. They are cold. They are sharp. They are you. The floor is marble. White. Veined with grey. The court is silent. A thousand eyes watch. They are wide. They are wet. They are hungry. You are the Keeper. You are the vessel. You are the wound. The food is gone. The medicine is gone. Only the glass remains. And you. The Chancellor stands...
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