The Pale Protocol
The blade did not sing as it cut through the air, but a low, wet tearing sound, like the ripping of old canvas, and then the silence that followed was heavier than the steel itself. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the courtyard, his chest heaving against the rigid confines of his tabard, the leather straps biting into his shoulders with a pain that felt strangely familiar, a ghost of an...
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