The Faded Masquerade
The mud on the ground did not smell of rain or earth, but of copper and old blood, a scent that clung to the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s throat like a physical weight. He moved through the fog with the stiff, rhythmic grace of a man whose joints had been replaced with iron, his eyes fixed on the swirling gray mist that seemed to breathe against the silence. The forest, if it could be called...
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