The Pale Protocol
The ash falls like snow. It is white and dry and it coats the tongue with a taste of chalk and old iron. You remember the recipe. You remember the weight of the mortar, the rhythm of the pestle, the way the herbs yielded their oils under the heavy stone. But the mortar is broken now. It lies in the square, shattered into jagged teeth, surrounded by the bodies of the men who kept the order. They...
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