The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-22 18:48:42 -

The leather strap of the satchel bit into Sir Aldric’s palm, a dull, rhythmic ache that synced with the tremor in his left hand. He was fifty-two, though the fog in his mind made him feel older, a man eroding at the edges like a stone in a fast river. He was looking for the Mask of Saint Jude, a relic whispered to exist in the ruins of the old capital, an object said to grant one final, perfect...

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