The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall; it was hammered down by a wind that smelled of iron and wet stone, driving the grey mist into the crevices of the old castle walls until the very mortar seemed to weep. I walked the perimeter of the keep, my boots sinking into the mud with a rhythmic, heavy thud that echoed against the silent, staring faces of the gargoyles carved into the battlements. For three years, I...
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