The Pale Protocol
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a wet, gray veil that suffocated the cobblestones of the old castle keep where the air tasted of damp stone and the metallic tang of fear. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle that sputters and dies in the draft, my hand cramped and bleeding from the cold, for the world I knew is gone, and I have found myself, against all my...
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