The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-19 05:24:46 -

The ink on my palm had dried into a stain that looked less like a mark and more like a wound that had forgotten how to bleed. It was a sigil of ash and iron, pressed into the flesh by the hands of old Silas, the keeper of the northern archives, three days before the frost took him. I had been twelve then, a boy of sharp elbows and sharper questions, standing in the dust of his library while the...

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