The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-22 13:39:55 -

The rain on the roof of Thorne Manor did not sound like rain; it sounded like teeth grinding against stone. I stood in the center of the grand hall, my service revolver heavy in my right hand, my left hand bracing against the cold oak of the banister. The wood was wet, not with condensation, but with a thick, black sap that oozed from the grain like blood from a slow wound. It was October,...

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