The Pale Protocol
Thorne. Thorne, you old mule, are you listening? The magistrate’s voice was a wet slap against the silence of the manor hall. Elias Thorne stood by the fireplace, his boots scuffed with the red clay of the lane, and waited for the dampness to settle. It always did, a cold sweat that wasn’t quite sweat, rising from the floorboards only when he felt the lie rising in his own throat. He was...
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