The Faded Masquerade
The rain in the valley of St. Jude did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain that smelled of wet wool and rot. Elias Thorne stood at the gate, his boots sinking into the mud that had once been the abbey’s courtyard, watching the last of the monks retreat into the interior of the crumbling stone. He was forty years old, a scholar of the old tongue, a man who had spent two decades decoding...
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