The Faded Masquerade
The wine was thick and dark as old blood, pooling in the clay cups we passed along the rough-hewn table, and I watched the candlelight dance on the curved neck of the jug, thinking how easily one could mistake the reflection of a flame for the soul of the man holding it, especially when the night was young and the air smelled of wet wool and roasted lamb, and I, being a man of few words and...
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