The Faded Masquerade
The mask sat on the workbench, a thing of silver and shadow that seemed to pull the warmth from Elias Thorne’s fingers even before he touched it. It was a Venetian plague doctor, the beak long and curved, the eyes hollowed out by a darkness that did not reflect the gaslight of his workshop in industrial Prague. Elias, a forty-year-old craftsman whose hands were permanently stained with the...
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