The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a constant, gray presence against the skin. Elias stood on the edge of the cliff, his boots sinking into the wet heather. He was a man made of sharp angles and old scars, a soldier who had traded his uniform for a coat that smelled of wet wool and stale tobacco. He held a letter in his hand. The paper was soft, worn thin by the thumb that had traced...
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