The Faded Masquerade
The letter was thin, the paper brittle with age, and the ink had faded to the color of dried blood. Elias Thorne read it in the cold of the holding cell, the parchment trembling slightly in his hands as he traced the jagged signature of the High Justiciar. It was a denial of asylum, a formal refusal to grant passage to his sister, Elara, whose lungs had turned to wet gravel in the damp air of...
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