The Pale Protocol
The hand was gone. Not severed, but dissolved, the flesh having lost its claim to the bone long before the bone itself surrendered to the cold. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, but the days had blurred into a single, gray smear of wind and sleet. Elias stood on the ridge, the mud sucking at his boots like a living thing. He looked down at his left arm. The sleeve hung empty, a dark...
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