The Pale Protocol
14 November, 1347 The ink in my well has turned a sickly green, a color that reminds me of the bile rising in my throat each time Lord Vane enters the scriptorium. I am thirty-two years old, a scribe of no particular renown, and I find myself trembling as I copy the Duke’s private ledger, my quill scratching against the vellum like a mouse gnawing through a wall. I want only to finish this book...
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