The Faded Masquerade
The ink moved. It did not shimmer or glow; it simply rearranged itself, like ants shifting in a disturbed mound, forming words that had not been there a moment before. Elias Thorne held his breath, his fingers trembling against the brittle parchment. He was a scholar of modest renown, a man who had traded his comfort for the cold certainty of knowledge, but this manuscript, the Faded...
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