The Pale Protocol
October 12, 1924 The coughing fits have grown worse since the rain began, a rattling wet sound that shakes the pen in my hand and leaves a smear of rust-colored blood on the blotter. I am forty-two years old, Elias Thorne, a junior archivist in the Imperial Palace, and I am dying. The physicians say it is consumption, a slow erosion of the lungs that will leave me a hollow shell within the...
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