The Faded Masquerade
The rain on the slate roof was not water, but a thousand tiny hammers striking the silence of the Hall, and I stood there, my hands slick with the red ichor of a creature that should not have existed, feeling the weight of the sword in my grip as if it were a limb that had finally decided to betray me. We are often told that the body is a temple, a sacred vessel for the soul, but in the deep,...
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