The Pale Protocol
The ink had dried on the third page of the provenance certificate, a smooth, black smear that smelled of oak gall and iron, and Elias counted the hours spent in the scriptorium, seven long stretches since dawn, his fingers stained to the knuckle, his back aching with the specific, dull throb of sitting too long on a bench not made for a man of his height. He was a scribe of modest station, a...
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