The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet on the final line of the ledger, and the smell of iron filings hangs heavy in the air of the scriptorium, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat like a bad memory. You are not a man, not in the way that the other scribes and the Abbot’s scribes are men, though you wear the rough wool habit of the Order of Saint Jude and you eat the same thin porridge and you...
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