The Faded Sutra
The banquet of the dead is a feast for the hungry, and you, Elias Thorne, are starving. You sit in the back of the carriage, your hands shaking so violently against the velvet seat that you have to clasp them into fists to stop them from knocking over the vial of tincture you hold. It is 1893, and the air in the carriage smells of wet wool and the metallic tang of your own fear. You are...
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