The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a persistent, wet shroud that clung to the high, vaulted ceilings of the Grand Atrium, turning the stone into a slick, weeping skin that mirrored the hollows of my own eyes as I stood alone in the center of the rotunda. I am a man who has learned to listen to the silence between the beats of a heartbeat, for in the long, quiet stretches of a campaign...
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