The Faded Masquerade
The ink on the resignation form is still wet when you sign it, the nib scratching a sound like a bone breaking. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a clerk of the fourth rank in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and you are leaving. The room is cold, the air thick with the scent of old paper and ozone, a smell that has permeated your clothes for three years. You do not look at Lord...
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