The Pale Protocol
The letter in your hand feels less like paper and more like a thin, cold skin, peeling away from the dryness of the air in this small, walled village of Ashenford. You are not supposed to be here. You are not supposed to be speaking, let alone writing, in a language that feels like gravel in your mouth, a tongue you learned not from a mother but from the desperate, hollowed-out silence of a...
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