The Faded Masquerade
The damp of the cellar in Vane Manor was not merely moisture but a living thing, a thick, fungal breath that clung to the stone walls and seeped into the marrow of Sir Aldric Vane, who stood alone in the dark clutching the Obsidian Mirror, a slab of black glass that reflected not the face of the holder but the true intent of the soul, a relic that had bound his lineage to the Crown’s service...
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