The Pale Protocol
1342, November 14th. The cold has moved into my bones. It is not the winter wind, which I can weather with wool and fire, but a damp chill that seeps from the mortar itself. I am writing to you, Thomas, from the cellar of Blackstone Manor, and I am afraid. I need the iron key. The one you kept in the drawer of your desk in York. Without it, the seal on the foundation stone will not hold. The...
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