The Pale Protocol
The rain is not water. It is memory. It falls through the roof of the cellar and pools in the cracks of the stone floor, cold and gray and relentless. You are lying down. Your head is on a block of limestone. Your hands are bound. Not with rope. With silence. You are in the city of Saint Aelred. Or what is left of it. The year is 1342. Or perhaps 1942. Time has slipped its belt here. The walls...
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