The Pale Protocol

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2026-08-23 11:17:13 -

The Pale Protocol

14 September, 1347 The mortar is stone, cold and unyielding under my thumb. I crush the dried root of the hemlock until it turns to powder, the scent sharp and bitter, a warning I have learned to ignore. My hands tremble. It is not from the cold, though the draft whistles through the shutters of the apothecary’s chamber, nor from the fatigue that has settled into my marrow like lead. It is from...

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