The Pale Protocol
The ink was still wet on the page when the tremor started in Elias Thorne’s right hand, a fine, persistent vibration that made the quill skitter across the vellum like a nervous insect. He stopped writing, holding his wrist up to the candlelight, watching the muscles spasm in the dim, amber glow of the study. It was a bad sign. A very bad sign, indeed. The joints had begun to swell three...
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