The Faded Masquerade
The rain hit the stone. It was cold. It was wet. I stood by the window. The glass was cracked. A spiderweb of fissures ran across it. Like veins. Like roads. I touched the pane. The cold bit my finger. I did not pull away. The castle was old. The walls were thick. They breathed. Or so it seemed. The air smelled of dust and rot. And old wood. I was the inquisitor. I was the judge. I was the...
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