The Faded Masquerade
The feast was a wound in the dark. Candles burned low. The air was thick with the smell of roasted boar and stale beer. I sat at the edge of the long oak table. My hand rested on the hilt of my sword. It was a heavy thing. A dead weight. I watched the flames dance. They were hungry. They ate the tallow. They ate the shadows. I was a guard. I protected the town. I protected the people. But the...
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