The Pale Protocol
The ink in my pen is thick, a black sludge that resists the nib, much like the blood in my veins has begun to resist the skin. I hold the letter in my hands, the paper damp with the condensation of this outpost’s air, and I watch the light on the back of my wrist where the runes have begun to bloom again. It is a faint, pale glow, like the moon seen through heavy cloud, marking the place where...
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