The Pale Protocol
The fog in the valley of Aethelgard does not merely obscure; it judges. It is a thick, grey wool that pulls at the horse’s breath and settles into the crevices of my armor, cold as the stone I have sworn to protect. I am Thomas Bradshaw, knight of the Pale Guard, and my left forearm is on fire. The Pale Mark, a spectral scar that has lived under my skin for ten years, pulses with a white-hot...
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