The Faded Masquerade
The morning mist clings to the High Pass like a wet shroud, obscuring the jagged teeth of the peaks that guard the northern border, and you stand at the edge of the cliff, watching the last of the supply wagons disappear into the grey throat of the valley below. You are Silas Vane, thirty-two years old, a Royal Ranger of the High Pass, and your left shoulder burns with a dull, persistent heat,...
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