The Pale Protocol
The rain had not stopped for three days, nor did it intend to. It fell in a cold, gray sheet against the mud of the ridge, eroding the path that led to the Citadel of St. Jude. My hands, wrapped in the remnants of a leather gauntlet that had once been black but was now the color of dried blood, trembled as I tightened the straps of my pack. I was a man of the Order, a knight sworn to the...
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