The Faded Masquerade
The carriage wheels grated against the cobblestones of the old town, a sound that seemed to drag the very air into a thick, grey mist. Elias Thorne sat in the back, his posture rigid as a board, his hands clasped so tightly over his knees that the knuckles had turned the color of old bone. He was not a man who traveled often, certainly not for work, but the letter from the Abbey of St. Jude had...
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