The Faded Masquerade
The ink did not dry. It bled into the parchment like a wound that refused to close. Elias stood at the edge of the moor. The wind tore at his cloak, a ragged thing of grey wool that had once been blue. He held the scroll tight against his chest. It was warm. It pulsed, a second heartbeat, slow and heavy. He had found it in the ruins of the abbey, tucked inside the hollow bone of a saint who had...
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