The Pale Protocol
The brass key was cold in my palm, its teeth worn smooth by ten years of turning locks that held nothing but debt and dust. I stood in the doorway of the Foundry district, the air thick with the smell of wet coal and rotting timber, and watched the grey fog curl around the cobblestones like a living thing seeking shelter. I am Thomas Vane, constable of Oakhaven, and I have come here to enforce...
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