The Pale Protocol
The date was the fourteenth of November, 1893, and the mud on the road to Aethelgard had not frozen, though it should have. Elias Thorne walked with the heavy, rhythmic drag of a man who had forgotten how to rest, his boots sinking into the wet earth with a sound like a wet cough. He carried the sealed letter in his left hand, the wax hard and cold against his palm, and the bone flute in his...
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