The Pale Protocol
The letter sat on the mahogany desk, unopened. Marek held his breath. The ink was dry. He did not sign it. He stared at the paper. White. Blank. A void. The house held its silence. Old stone. Cold air. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light. Marek was a warrior. Not with a sword. With his mind. With his body. He had trained for years. Muscles coiled. Nerves frayed. He waited for the enemy. The...
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