The Pale Protocol
The date is October 14, 1923, and the ink in my pen has begun to bleed, a slow, rust-colored seep that spreads across the page like a bruise forming under the skin, a physical manifestation of the lie I am currently constructing in my own mind. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years of age, an archivist of the Third Class, and I am watching the High Chancellor, Lord Vane, dismiss my warnings as...
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