The Pale Protocol
The ink is wrong again. December 14, 1893. The wind off the Northern Reach does not howl; it scrapes, like a file against bone, and the cold has penetrated the walls of the outpost so thoroughly that my breath freezes before it reaches the windowpane. I am attempting to finalize the survey of the Kaelen Ridge, a task I have undertaken for the Crown for the better part of a decade, yet my hand,...
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