The Faded Masquerade
The stone was cold against Elias Thorne’s knuckles, a chill that seeped through the leather of his work gloves and into the bone. He stood before the Duke’s tribunal, a small, high table carved from oak, where the air smelled of beeswax and stale wine. Three years of labor, of calculating the load paths for the flying buttresses of St. Jude’s, had culminated in this moment of silence. The Duke,...
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