The Pale Protocol
The November frost had begun to creep up the glass of the study window, a web of white veins that seemed to tighten as the afternoon light failed. I am writing this by the last of the coal fire, the heat long since dissipated into the cold air of the ironworks, while Thomas sits in the corner, his back to me, reviewing the accounts with a ferocity that feels like a physical blow. He is...
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