The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-20 14:17:49 -

The iron gates of the Abbey of St. Jude were bolted shut against the creeping winter, their hinges weeping rust into the damp earth. You sat alone in the scriptorium, the only light a single tallow candle that sputtered and died as often as it flared. The air was thick with the scent of dried oak and old ink, a perfume that had seeped into your bones over thirty years of service. You were the...

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