The Pale Protocol
The hand shook as the ink bled into the cheap paper, smearing the date, October 14th, into a black bruise. Captain Elias Thorne pressed the nib harder, trying to force the letters to stand straight, but the garrison of St. Jude’s was a dying thing, coughing up dust and the acrid smell of burnt rations that clung to the back of his throat. Outside, the artillery thumped against the earth like a...
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