The Pale Protocol
The candles were burning so low that the shadows in the Great Hall of Blackwood Manor did not dance but slither, pooling in the corners like spilled ink, and in the center of this swirling darkness you sat, your hands wrapped around a cup of wine that had long since turned to vinegar in the air, waiting for the word that would end your life. You are the last of the Ashworth line, the last...
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