The Faded Masquerade
You are standing in the center of the grand ballroom, the air thick with the scent of stale lavender and the metallic tang of old blood that seems to seep up through the polished parquet floor, and you are wearing a mask made of thin, translucent silk that smells faintly of camphor and regret, and you know, with a certainty that feels like a physical weight pressing against your sternum, that...
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