The Pale Protocol
The ink in my quill has dried into a black scab, yet my hand trembles as I scratch these words onto the parchment, for the silver brooch fused to the sternum of my chest has cracked again, a fracture no wider than a hair but deep enough to let the cold of the room seep into the marrow of my bones. I am Elias Thorne, scribe to the Duke, and I am thirty-two years old, a man who has spent the...
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