The Faded Masquerade
The rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, drumming against the canvas of the carriage as it cut through the gray sprawl of New London. Elias Thorne sat in the corner, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that had not been drawn in thirty years. He was not a soldier. He was a collector. And what he carried in the leather satchel against his chest was not gold, nor jewels, but something...
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