The Pale Protocol
The cold seeps through the soles of your boots, a wet and creeping thing that has no respect for the wool you have wrapped around your toes, and it begins in your dreams as a whisper that sounds terribly like your own name being called from the bottom of a deep, silent well, where the water is black and the air is thick with the scent of rotting lilies. You are standing in the courtyard of the...
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