The Faded Masquerade
The rain had not ceased for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the Keep into a slick, treacherous mirror reflecting the dim light of the lanterns. Sir Alistair Thorne stood by the high, arched window of his study, his fingers resting on the cold iron of his hilt, not because he sought comfort there, but because the metal was the only thing in the room that...
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