The Pale Protocol
The King’s writ arrived on a Tuesday, carried by a boy whose boots were caked in the red clay of the royal road, and it named Elias by title and trade, demanding his presence before the Chancellor by the third bell of the afternoon. It was not a request, but a summons, and the paper smelled of wet ink and the stale sweat of the courier, a scent that clung to the parchment like a curse. Elias...
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