The Pale Protocol
The mist was already on my wrists when I sat down to write this. It is a pale, translucent thing, cold as the water in the archive’s well, and it binds tight when a lie is spoken in Oakhaven. I have served this town for thirty years as senior archivist, cataloging the deeds of men who are now dust, and I have never seen the Protocol so visible. They say it is a curse, a manifestation of our...
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