The Faded Masquerade
The leather-bound ledger sat in Elias Thorne’s hands, heavy as a wet stone, its spine cracked and bleeding a faint, viscous ink that smelled of iron and old blood. He was forty-two years old, a wandering scribe with the hollowed look of a man who had spent too long staring into the void of his own making, and he sat alone in the rain-slicked alley of Vael, the city’s damp breath clinging to his...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews