The Pale Protocol
The nib of your pen scratches against the parchment, a sound like a small animal dying in the corner of the room. You are copying the Duke’s charter, letter by letter, into your private journal, and the ink is wet, black, and heavy in the well of your quill. It is October the twelfth, and the rain has been falling on the slate roof of the Royal Chancery for three days, a relentless drumming...
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