The Faded Masquerade
The smell of wet wool and stale incense hung thick in the lower dormitory, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a foreign object. "Thorne," Abbot Malachi called out, his voice carrying the dry rasp of a man who had swallowed too much chalk dust. "Come here, you are keeping the novices waiting." Elias straightened his spine, the leather of his inquisitor’s belt creaking...
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