The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-17 12:06:54 -

The brass astrolabe sat on the workbench, its intricate gears frozen in a mid-turn, a small, intricate corpse of metal and ambition that had once mapped the stars and now only mapped the decay of my own hands, a relic of a world where precision was a form of prayer and error was a kind of sin, but here in the soot-stained belly of the Ironspire, where the air tasted of ozone and burnt copper,...

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