The Faded Masquerade
The air in the Grand Hall of the Sterling Palace did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a building that had not been fully occupied in a decade, but rather of ozone, old perfume, and the metallic tang of high-stakes machinery, a scent that clung to the velvet curtains and the polished mahogany like a second skin. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the room, his hands clasped...
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