The Pale Protocol
The ink in my pen was thick and dark, like the sludge that seeped from the window frames of St. Jude’s Chapel, and I wrote these words by the light of a tallow candle that sputtered against the damp November air. I am Elias Thorne, an architect from the old country, and I have come to Blackwood, a town of soot and iron, to save a building that seems determined to consume its savior. My contract...
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