The Pale Protocol
The wool itches. You know it does. It has always itched, a constant, low-grade static against your skin that you have mistaken for a moral failing. For forty years, you have worn the grey. It is the uniform of the Court of Whispers, the fabric of silence, the textile of the unspoken. You are a dyer, though you do not call yourself that. You are a shaper of secrets. You mix the indigo with the...
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