The Faded Masquerade
The fog in the lower city did not rise so much as it leaked, a grey, damp exhalation from the cobblestones that smelled of wet wool and old iron. It clung to the ankles of those who walked the narrow streets, soaking through woolen breeches and the soles of boots, a persistent, cold damp that seemed to seep into the marrow. In the center of this dampness stood the Spire, a jagged tooth of black...
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