The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet on the parchment, and your hands are trembling so badly that the letters bleed into one another like bruises under skin. You are writing this in the scriptorium of St. Aldric’s Abbey, a place that smells of damp stone and the sharp, metallic scent of iron gall ink. It is the year 1348, or perhaps 1349; time has become a slippery thing here, a loop you cannot seem to break....
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