The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-19 03:51:56 -

The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into slick, dark mirrors. It was a sound that seemed to enter the bones, a low, rhythmic drumming that Eleanor Whitmore found both soothing and terrifying. She stood in the center of the Grand Hall, her fingers tracing the cold, polished oak of the banister. The hall was empty, stripped...

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