The Pale Protocol
The letter from the Wardens’ Council lay on the frost-rimed table, its seal broken and the parchment damp with the condensation of my own breath, a document that demanded I deliver the Pale Elixir to my brother Julian before the winter solstice, a task that had begun as a duty of state and had already, by the time I read the final line, become a sentence of exile. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four...
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