The Pale Protocol
The wind outside the outpost did not howl so much as it counted, a dry, rhythmic scraping against the timber that Major Elias Thorne had long since learned to ignore in favor of the more pressing arithmetic of survival. He sat at the desk, the cold seeping through the wool of his trousers, and stared at the letter he had drafted three times before settling on the current, staccato phrasing. It...
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