The Pale Protocol
The rain has not stopped for three days, and the tower feels less like a place of refuge and more like a throat swallowing me whole. I write this by the light of a tallow candle that sputters and dies, leaving me in a darkness so thick it seems to have weight. I am Elias, a scribe of no particular renown, and I am trapped in the uppermost chamber of the Abbey of St. Jude, a stone cage that...
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