The Pale Protocol
The frost has formed a lattice on the carriage window, a delicate, intricate web that mirrors the blackening veins now tracing up my forearms. I am Elias Thorne, thirty years old, a scholar of little renown and less comfort, and I am writing this from the belly of a frozen cart as it shudders toward the capital. My father, the original author of the Pale Protocol, died three days ago, his body...
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