The Pale Protocol
The letter was sealed with wax the color of dried blood, and Elias Thorne held it in his trembling hands as the steam from the teapot curled around his knuckles like a ghost seeking warmth. He was a man of precise measurements, a restorer of antique timepieces whose fingers had long since forgotten the weight of anything but brass and jewel bearings. Yet here he sat, in a room that smelled of...
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