The Pale Protocol
The ink is wet, bleeding into the coarse parchment like a wound that refuses to close, and you are writing this by the light of a single, sputtering tallow candle in a tent that smells of wet wool, old blood, and the metallic tang of iron dust. You are writing this to me, Elara, to the woman who is currently sleeping in the village of Oakhaven, three miles east of here, trusting that I will...
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