The Pale Protocol
The parchment is damp, the ink still wet where the seal broke, and the cost of this paper alone is a small fortune in the current exchange, a detail that makes my stomach clench with a familiar, dull ache. I am Thomas Bradshaw, Commander of the Northern Garrison, and I am holding a letter that asks me to kill a bird. The date is the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1348, and the...
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