The Pale Protocol
The letter is stained with the red earth of the valley and the black soot of the furnace, and as you hold it, the parchment feels less like paper and more like the skin of a thing that has been flayed and dried in the harsh, unyielding wind of the high passes. You are writing this from the edge of the precipice, where the world ends not in water but in a sheer drop into a fog so thick it has...
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