The Pale Protocol
The parchment was thin, barely thicker than the skin of a peeled apple, and Elias Thorne’s quill dragged through it with a sound like a nail pulling free from wood. He had been writing for six hours, the ink mixing with the sweat that had dried stiff in his hair, and the cell in the Inquisitor’s tower was growing colder as the candle burned down to a stub. His hands trembled, not from the...
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