The Faded Masquerade
The soup was cold, a thick, gray sludge that had congealed into a texture resembling wet ash, and it sat in the bowl before Elara with the indifference of a dead thing. She did not eat. She stared at the surface, where a single droplet of oil had broken the monochrome monotony, floating there like a solitary eye watching her from the deep. The room was small, a windowless cell within the vast,...
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