The Faded Masquerade
In the salt-bleached, wind-scoured village of Oakhaven, where the air tasted perpetually of brine and old stone, the boundary between the waking world and the Dreaming Court was not a line but a membrane, thin as onion skin and far more fragile than anyone dared to admit, and it was here, in the shadow of the Great Spire that pierced the low, bruised sky, that Elias Thorne stood, his hands...
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