The Faded Masquerade
The great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude did not merely stand; it breathed, a slow and heavy exhalation of stone and centuries that seemed to hold the very air in suspension, a thick, amber-hued fog that tasted of dust and dried lavender and the faint, metallic tang of old iron. It was a place where time had not passed but had instead pooled, deepening into a stillness so profound that the...
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