The Pale Protocol
The letter lies before me on the mahogany desk, its edges worn soft by the friction of my fingers, a document that has traveled from the cold, grey harbors of Liverpool to the suffocating heat of this provincial court in Vienna, carrying with it the scent of brine and the quiet, devastating weight of a promise broken. I am Elias Thorne, a man who has spent the last decade scrubbing the rust of...
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