The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-16 20:19:20 -

The rain has not stopped for three days, a cold, persistent mist that clings to the stone walls of the Hall of Whispers like a shroud. You stand in the center of the rotunda, your back against the cold marble pillar, watching the figures move in the distance. They are the Council, the architects of this age, draped in silks that shimmer with an iridescence that seems less like fabric and more...

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