The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet on the parchment of my final confession. I write it by the light of a dying candle, the wax pooling like blood on the table. Outside, the wind howls through the broken shutters of this tower, a sound like the groaning of old men in a field. You are here, though I cannot see you. You are the shadow that has followed me from the village square to this cold stone room. You are...
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