The Pale Protocol
The feast begins with a crash of silver on stone. You are there. You are always there. The hall is vast, a cathedral of wood and shadow, lit by a thousand candles that flicker like dying stars. The air smells of roasted pork, heavy spices, and the metallic tang of old blood. You sit at the high table, though you are not a lord. You are not a king. You are the scribe. You are the one who writes...
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