The Pale Protocol
The wind hits the pass at four in the afternoon, carrying the first bite of winter. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, and your boots are frozen to the stone. You want this shift to end. You want to cross the line, seal the gate, and let the corps send a replacement. The opposing force is not the cold. It is the Pale Protocol. The fog has been rolling in since dawn, a thick, silent wall that...
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