The Pale Protocol
The letter lay on the oak table, its edges already fraying, the ink fading into a ghostly gray that matched the dust motes dancing in the thin light of the chapel. You picked it up, your fingers trembling not from cold, but from the weight of what it contained, a simple command from the High Inquisitor that felt less like a directive and more like a funeral shroud draped over your name. You had...
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