The Faded Masquerade
I woke with the taste of iron and old dust on my tongue, the air thick and heavy as wet wool, pressing against my lungs in a rhythm that did not feel like my own. I was lying on a floor of polished obsidian, smooth and cold, reflecting a sky that had no sun but instead a vast, swirling nebula of bruised purple and sickly green, the colors shifting and churning like oil on water, a sky that...
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