The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey mist that blurred the edges of the city into a smear of charcoal and slate. In his dream, Elias Thorne stood in the center of a vast, circular atrium, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and old paper. He was wearing a mask of white porcelain, smooth and featureless, and he felt it growing heavier, fusing into his skin...
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