The Faded Masquerade
The tower was not a building. It was a body. Elias knew this. He knew it in the marrow. The stone skin of the Old Exchange pressed against his ribs. The brickwork was his own flesh, cracked and dry. He lived inside the architecture. He was the architecture. He was fourteen. The city below was a sea of grey. Rain slicked the cobblestones. It smelled of wet ash and old blood. Elias stood on the...
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