The Pale Protocol
14 October, 1342 I hold the hilt of the Pale Protocol in my left hand, the leather worn smooth by twelve years of sweat and grip. The steel is cold, colder than the morning air in the barracks, and it does not hum. For the first time in my service to the Crown, the blade is silent. I know what silence means. It means I am wrong. Or it means I am afraid. I cannot tell which, and the uncertainty...
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