The Pale Protocol
Chapter One Anahit Jovanovic scrubbed the rust from the gate latch with a wire brush, the metal biting into her palm, while the haze off the Swahili coast turned the mountains into gray rumors. She was thirty-two, and the orchard behind the palace walls was bleeding again, the sap pooling in the dirt with the iron smell of old blood. The Court called it a sign of divine displeasure, a mirror to...
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