The Pale Protocol
I. Mona Qasim remembered the taste of the ink before the pain, a metallic tang that coated the back of her throat like old copper pennies. She was thirty years old, a border warden in the lower districts of the Pale City, and her left hand was bleeding black fluid onto the grain ledger, a domestic anomaly she had managed for a decade by keeping her words strictly to the truth. The fog outside...
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