The Pale Protocol
14 October, 1893 The silver clasp is cold. It bites into the wool of my uniform, a sharp, metallic pain that grounds me as I button the final fastening. My hands tremble. I check the mirror in the staff corridor. The face looking back is thirty-two years old, thin, drawn tight with the specific exhaustion of a man who has slept poorly for five years. I am Elias Thorne, Senior Warden at...
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