The Pale Protocol
The smell of the banquet is the first thing that gets to you, thick and cloying, a heavy fog of burnt sugar and old wine that clings to the back of your throat. You are standing in the center of the grand hall, your uniform pressed and immaculate, the fabric stiff against your skin like a second, colder layer. Around you, the city’s elite laugh, their voices a low hum that vibrates in your...
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