The Pale Protocol

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2026-08-21 16:15:27 -

The Pale Protocol

The wool coat was red. It had been red for six years, a deep, arterial crimson that had faded only at the elbows and cuffs, worn thin by the friction of Thomas’s own shoulders. He sat in the corner of the tavern, the air thick with the smell of wet straw and stale ale, watching the firelight dance across the rough-hewn beams. The feast had ended an hour ago, the tables cleared, the bones of the...

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